Besieged Homeland
by RedFox
Summary: Though many years have passed since Robotnik's defeat, not all is well on Mobius as a group of young friends find themselves caught up in a desperate attempt to prevent a powerful force from overrunning that which two of them call home.
1. Prologue

Besieged Homeland

by Darren "RedFox" McRoy

Prologue 

            "I just don't understand why we had to come _this_ early."

            Sally sighed. It was the fifth time that Sonic had said pretty much the same thing in different wording. Yes, the sun had barely crested the peaks of the tall pines surrounding Knothole Village, but the project was of urgency and needed to be addressed immediately. Besides, they'd both promised Rotor yesterday that they'd meet him at his lab just after dawn. While Sonic liked to keep his promises, he also liked to sleep late. It was an unfitting combo for when those promises were to be carried out before noon.

            Six months had passed since the two-week war against Snively and his robotic forces was won. The conflict had ended in victory, but also in tragedy, as young Randall D'Coolette had fallen afoul of an imposter that had roboticized the entire lower half of his body. It was estimated that over a decade would pass before the supply of a natural resource essential to the deroboticization process was replenished. However, Knothole's prime scientists were well on the track of discovering a synthetic substitute for the critical chemical. This was the project that Rotor had to make a formal presentation on today. It was bound to be tedious, but critical. Sally would have to ensure that Sonic didn't nod off in the middle of the demonstration—such behavior did not become his popular image.

            "You know how vital this is," Sally replied, keeping a tight hold on her temper. It wasn't easy. This could be the only chance at saving Randall from a dozen years of suffering through a life half-robot, and all that Sonic could think about was how little sleep he had gotten the previous night.

            "So vital that it can't wait another two hours?" Sonic would just not let the issue rest. It suited his personality—he simply didn't give up. In battle, that had always been one of his greatest assets. Now, when it came to complaining, his insatiable persistence was just plain annoying. "What's going to happen in the next two hours?"

            "You're going to attend this demonstration, that's what." Sally's curiosity broke through her irritation for a moment. Sonic was generally far more responsible than this. "Something's definitely up with you," she said flatly, stopping and turning to face the hedgehog so that he nearly walked into her. "You never act this childish anymore unless you're particularly angry about something."

            Sonic scowled. "I have reason to be."

            It didn't take long for Sally to figure out what the reason was. When she got it, she let out a surprised snort of laughter. "Oh, come on," she said in disbelief. "You don't mean to tell me that you're _still_ up in arms over the whole Laertes affair?"

            "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't be!" Sonic retorted. "Sally, do you remember even a fraction of what that creep tried to do to me? To you? To _us_?"

            Sally remembered. Fifteen years ago Laertes, then a falcon in his prime and a hero for his numerous contributions to the war against Robotnik, had been the primary opponent of her marriage to Sonic, a union that had bridged the caste gap to bring together a princess and a lowly commoner. The outcry over the breaking of ancient custom was enormous, and Laertes, a traditionalist pure and simple, had led the faction that sought to keep the two of them apart. The motion was defeated, however, in the light of Sonic's heroic accomplishments. 

Then three years ago King Acorn, Sally's father, had finally succumbed to heart problems. Sally's brother Elias had forsaken the kingship long ago, and his present whereabouts were unknown. Though Sally had been trained from youth to lead the kingdom, many of the traditionalists would not accept a female leader. Ironically, those who had earlier sought to denounce Sonic now supported his ascension to the throne as the lesser of two evils. Others declared that Sonic's inexperience as a ruler would lead to chaos. Arguments between the two parties became so fierce that civil war was feared.

Finally, a simple agreement had been reached. The two would reign as a duumvirate, each with an equal amount of power. Both factions were at least partially satisfied, and Knothole had lived in peace since, save for that brief bizarre war that left but one casualty. The conflict had, however, been a jarring reminder to expect the unexpected and thus Sonic and Sally were urged to choose a temporary successor to the sovereignty, in case something should happen to them. Their own daughter, Sabrina, was still just thirteen years old and their only child—as well as female. She would have to prove her own worth someday.

Therefore, they had needed to choose a regent and Sonic, at the time burdened by a number of other matters concerning the aftermath of the brief confrontation and considering the succession to be of less immediate importance, had shuffled the responsibility off to Sally. It hadn't been easy to make a decision, either. Many of the highest people in the government had very little actual knowledge of politics; they had simply won their positions by supporting winning causes. Laertes, on the other hand, was brilliant, much respected, and had the overall skills necessary to take a place at the head of the regime. Despite her deep personal dislike for the falcon, Sally had to concede he was best suited for the job.

Convincing Sonic had not been effortless either. Sonic loathed Laertes far more than her, and he had only agreed—reluctantly, grudgingly, and bitterly—out of respect for the political training that Sally had been receiving practically since she could walk. Even so, he remained resentful and sulky, though the decision had been passed over a week ago. Laertes had accepted the appointment with dignity and grace, and resumed his current position as a member of the advisory council, for he would not be called upon lest both king and queen be unable to rule. Sally did not doubt that she had made the correct choice, and having Sonic consistently question it was beginning to irritate her. "There was no better choice," she said flatly.

"I don't trust that creep," Sonic replied in a disgusted tone.

Realizing that they were already nearly a minute late, Sally sought to quickly bring the argument to a close. "You know the only way that he'll assume the position is if something happens to us," she reminded him, and continued sarcastically, "so unless you were planning on getting us both killed anytime soon, there's nothing to worry about." A long time ago, the likelihood of that would have been nothing to joke about. Now, with Mobius at peace, even Sonic's recklessness had little chance of landing himself six feet underground. Turning away in a manner that suggested the topic was closed, Sally resumed walking, now rather quickly, towards Rotor's laboratory. She heard Sonic following her and restrained from looking behind her so she wouldn't have to see the undoubtedly nasty expression on his cobalt and beige face.

Rotor had prepared the lab for them. A couple of easels graced with complex-looking scientific diagrams stood to either side of a table boasting a number of bubbling chemicals in test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks. Two cushioned chairs were also provided. The building was small, and with all of the space taken up by scientific equipment, could not have accompanied many more than the three of them. Of course, Rotor was also rather large. It was a wonder that he didn't break something every time that he turned around—but for some reason he preferred the tiny place to any of the more spacious options that Sonic had offered to him.

The walrus turned to salute, but Sonic waved off the formality grouchily and crashed into a chair. Sally gave him a reproachful look, and an apologetic one to Rotor, who grinned. Having known Sonic for just as long as Sally, he was long used to the hedgehog's unofficial demeanor. "Good to see you both here on time," he said - Sally also noticed that the wall clock was a bit slow. "I do believe that I've made a very important breakthrough—have a seat, and I'll tell you what I know."

As Rotor began to present his intricate diagnosis, Sally could practically feel Sonic straining to stay awake. He stifled a yawn. She tried her best to ignore him and listen to what the scientist was describing. Something about silicon and radioactive decay. _Should have invited Miles to tag along_, Sally reflected. Not only would the fox have been fascinated, he might have been able to translate the scientific phraseology into something at least remotely coherent. As far as she was concerned, if the chemical did the job, fine.

Rotor now appeared to be demonstrating something as he picked up a test tube filled with a steel-blue substance and poured it into a flask with a yellow liquid, quickly corking the latter. The substance inside began to bubble and fizz slightly. Pointing to the chart to his left, he began to explain the chemical reaction that was occurring in the flask. Sally was more alert now; it was starting to make a faint bit of sense. When those bonds were broken, the carbon ones formed… it was exothermic, so the leftover energy could be utilized for…

Sonic suddenly gasped out loud and pointed at the flask. It had been bubbling lightly before, but now had taken on the appearance of a lava lake. Rotor looked horrified. "That's not right!" he cried. "The reaction isn't supposed to be that explosive!" Whatever was supposed to happen was now irrelevant. The tumultuous reaction now looked like some sort of possessed demon that was trapped in a bottle and had a vicious urge to escape. The bottle began to shake on the table, and crashed into another, which fell onto the floor and smashed, splashing its contents everywhere.

"No!" Rotor cried, making a wild stab for the raging flask. "If those two touch—"

 It was too late. The container fell and smashed on the ruins of the other.

"Look out!" Rotor cried.

Sonic threw his body in front of Sally.

A tremendous explosion rocked Knothole Village.


	2. Adeline

Chapter One: Adeline 

            Creeping through the woods, Adeline kept a keen eye out for any flash of orange fur. Playing hide-and-seek with most of the other kids was generally relatively simple, but with Tails you had to search in three dimensions; more likely than not, the multi-caudal vulpine would either take refuge in the canopy or simply remain hovering in mid-air too high up for anyone to hear the cacophony that the whirling of his tails produced. On this particular occasion, however, he was proving rather impossible to locate. _Must have found a really excellent spot this time_, Adeline thought. She'd been looking in vain for nearly ten minutes now, and she was beginning to become one very tired coyote.

            Clouds were beginning to roll in; if nothing else, rain might flush out her quarry. Of course, such would also bring the game to a halt. After losing at least three dozen times in chess and forcing one draw purely by luck, Adeline was in no way looking forward to spending another day inside with Tails. Schools were scheduled to reopen in a couple of days in a new location, but at the moment most of Knothole was in chaos dealing with recent events. An eighth of the town had been reduced to ashes by the fires ensuing from the laboratory accident, including most educational facilities. The library, which held many invaluable records, had only been barely saved. As many times as Adeline had wished the school would burn down, the reality of it was not the miracle she had imagined.

            The king and queen had only barely survived the incident. Sonic had taken the brunt of the blast, however, and was in far worse condition than his spouse. Still, both remained in a coma and were being looked after by Knothole's best doctors. Rotor, the scientist who's experiment had gone wrong, was also very badly hurt and even now, over a week since the explosion, was still listed in critical condition. Luckily, very few others had been awake at the time and no other major injuries were sustained in the blast itself. Moderate burns and scalds resulting from the ensuing conflagration were more common; the air had smelled of singed fur for days. Not only trained physicians were helping with the injuries, but everyone in town with a first aid kit was also volunteering in all of their spare time. It still was barely enough.

            A few detectives were researching the possibility of sabotage, but poking through the charred remains of the disaster area produced no leads. Any evidence had been thoroughly burned away. For the most part, it was assumed that Rotor had merely mixed up his chemicals by accident. Rebuilding seemed more important—and, though villagers of all ages were doing their best to find ways to assist, often adults just wanted the kids to stay out of their way. Which was why Adeline was playing this frivolous game with her slightly younger friend, who persisted to remain inconspicuous. _He's orange, for heaven's sake_, Adeline thought. _Orange does not make for good camouflage_.

            That pompous raptor, Laertes, had made a dignified speech as he accepted the throne _pro tempore_, until either Sonic or Sally was able to function as monarch. He was currently presiding over the reconstruction project, and apparently doing rather well. He seemed to Adeline to be decent enough—even if he was slightly portentous, she couldn't understand why so many people loathed him so. Sure, he had once deprecated Sonic, but wasn't that something of the distant past? The guy even _looked_ regal (a trait which Sonic never exactly had). Plus, Sally was the political mastermind… and she had approved Laertes' selection. In the end, however, Adeline was simply too young to care much about all of that—as long as the village got repaired, she would be happy.

            She halted in her tracks and took a look backwards over her shoulder. Thinking about the village had reminded her that they weren't supposed to go too far from it. However, the twelve-year-old coyote could no longer even smell the arid smoky odor still hanging over the devastated portion of the town. Checking her watch, she noticed that she'd simply been walking forward, lost in thought, for the last five minutes. _Definitely time to head back_, she decided. At least she could find her way… the mud still bore her shoe-prints.

            However, she had to let Tails know that the game was over as well. She reached for her whistle, which she was supposed to always take with her when going into the woods—and discovered that she hadn't bothered to grab it this morning. Wonderful. "Tails!" she called out. "I give! You won! C'mon, we're headed back now!" She waited for thirty seconds, and heard nothing. That was bad; Tails knew that when she called, he was to appear at once… which meant that she must be too far away for him to hear her. To make things complete, the heavens began to let loose with a torrent that had Adeline's fur matted against her sides in seconds.

            She used a word she would _not_ have used in public.

            Looking at the ground, she saw that the rain was washing her footprints away rapidly. _Okay_, she thought, _stay calm_._ First things first—let's get back to Knothole in one piece. There'll be hell to pay when I tell them that I've lost Tails, but it's better than being out here in the rain._ She could still see the general direction that her imprints were pointing, and decided to follow them for as long as she possibly could, then when she couldn't see them anymore, she would walk in the general way that they were pointing. The rain would prevent her from catching whiff of the town's current stench, but, with luck, she could locate some familiar landmark.

            Now that she thought about it, too, she wouldn't have to be too concerned about Tails, either. At the speed that he could whip his three fantastic appendages, he would be able to keep them dry enough to maintain flight power. From the heights that he could attain, he'd be able to locate the small clearing that held the main entrance to Knothole. The location of the settlement, in accord with tradition dating back many years, was kept a tight secret from all but its inhabitants and a select few. Six months ago, this had proved extremely useful when that evil midget Snively had reappeared planning to roboticize Sonic and seize control from the ensuing chaos. It had almost worked, too…

            Adeline snapped her head out of her reflective state. Half a year ago, she would not have been deep in thought in this situation—she would have been sprinting back towards Knothole as fast as she could in a mild panic. She was very well known around the village for her inexhaustible energy supply, but recent strange changes in her body were beginning to affect her personality as well. She was nearly a teenager, and over the last six months had spent less time causing chaos and more in her room, thinking, reading or writing poetry. She poured her deepest secrets into her prose, and hid it far from anyone, except for her brother, Randall. She supposed that the terrible calamity that he had undergone was, more than anything else, the reason for her extreme change in personality. For nearly a week she had lived in recluse, and when she finally rejoined society, she was a very different girl. Some adults were sympathetic and thought of it as a loss of innocence—but Adeline knew that she couldn't be young forever, and didn't see her maturity as the pity that others did.

            She was jolted out of reminiscence for the third time that morning, this time by a chill of cold that ran through her body. She shivered. It was a chilly day for spring, even though the climate around Knothole was somewhat warmer than temperate. Beginning to walk back, now, she realized for the first time the seriousness of her condition. Hypothermia was no joke, and even if Tails managed to get back to the town for help, she would be a laughingstock throughout her teenage years for being rescued by a ten-year-old kit. Trying to keep herself warm, she increased the pace of her walk. At least she had eaten a good breakfast that morning.

            Out of the corner of her eye, she caught glimpse of a movement in the trees. She swiveled around quickly and saw a dark silhouette kneeling next to a motionless figure lying on the ground. The former had in its hand something that bore almost undeniable resemblance to a dagger. Exactly what was happening, Adeline didn't want to know. She screamed, then, too late tried to stifle it. The kneeling form leapt to its feet and whipped around, brandishing its stiletto. Adeline ran.

            Underbrush whipped at her legs as she sprinted panic-stricken in the general direction that she believed her home village lay. Muddy water sprayed against her as her black sneakers struck the surface of each puddle. She could hear splashes behind her as well, and knew that she was being pursued. The agility of her youth didn't fail her as she skirted obstacles with ease, but her chaser appeared undeterred—even closing quickly. She was far too weak and terrified to fight, and calling for help would be obviously futile. A stitch began to form in her side—and she still had to be at least a mile and a half from home.

Casting a flash glance over her shoulder, Adeline felt her right leg suddenly stop moving forward. Her momentum carried her head over heels, and she landed face first in the mire about five feet in front of the tree root that she had tripped on. For perhaps the first time in her life, Adeline knew true fatigue. Far too exhausted to rise, she groaned, struggled, and awaited her death, hoping that it would be quick. She was going to perish there, pathetically, facedown in the mud—hardly a fate worthy of the daughter of a Royal Guard. When they discovered her body, it would be the second terrible tragedy in as many weeks; could the town survive such a catastrophe?

            It seemed impossible for her horror to increase, but a new wave washed over Adeline as she suddenly wondered if anyone would ever even know of her fate. Why would a killer leave evidence just lying around? Worse still, that shade had been doing something to the figure on the ground when she had interrupted with her foolish scream. Terrible thoughts of mutilation and necrophilia coursed through Adeline's mind. She wished that she had the will to scream again as she heard the wet footsteps approaching and her pursuer's panting breath. Wasn't it about now that her life was supposed to flash before her eyes?

            The footfalls slowed to a stop.

            "Are you all right?"

            A number of things occurred to Adeline at this point. First of these was that that was a rather odd question to ask for someone who intended to murder her in cold blood. The second was that the speaker of those four words was female, and could not have been older that Adeline herself. The combination of these facts seemed to indicate that she was _not_ about to die. Gloved hands searching through the mud for a purchase, Adeline groaned, turned over and sat up. Oddly, she happened to notice that the rain had temporarily stopped

            "You okay?" the girl asked again. Adeline still couldn't see her, owing to the fact that her own eyes were still full of mud. Rubbing at them, she suddenly became aware of a shooting pain in her toe. _Must have stubbed it pretty badly_._ Crap_. Eyes finally clear, she was finally able to get a good look at the tall form standing over her. She was a young feline—black and white furred, with maroon boots that blended with the mud she stood in. Her tattered T-shirt and shorts, which bore numerous holes of assorted sizes, were also of a russet hue, though they probably owed that shade to layers of dirt. The cat herself didn't look too good either—her flesh bore nearly as many wounds as her clothing, and her fur, largely matted down by the rain, was filthy with grime, muck, and dried blood. In comparison even Adeline, with her face caked in sludge, looked better kept.

            Realizing that she still hadn't responded, Adeline decided that this might be an opportune time, before the other girl decided she was a deaf-mute. "I'll be okay," she said, struggling to her feet and ignoring the protesting pain from several parts of her body. "What are you doing out here, anyhow? Where do you live?"

            The girl paused for a barely noticeable moment. "I'll explain that later," she said, "but what's important right now is that we're lost and not exactly in terrific shape, as you may have noticed. Our supplies are nearly gone, too. Could you help us? Are we near a town? We've been searching for days and we haven't seen another living soul. That's why I had to chase you—I'm sorry if it frightened you," she added apologetically.

            This gave Adeline herself reason for pause. Could this wandering stranger be trusted with the ultra-secret location of the village? However, she _was_ a Mobian, and one in pretty bad shape; she was going to need medical attention pretty quickly. While thinking this one over, Adeline stalled by inquiring as to the girl's two items—the dagger (now back in its sheath on her belt) and also a roll of bandaging tape that she was holding in her other hand.

            "Oh, this?" she said, apparently surprised to find the medical adhesive still in her hand—which, unlike Adeline's and those of many Mobians, was ungloved. "My brother's hurt far worse than I am; I was changing his bandages when I heard you scream." She looked startled for a moment, "Oh no, I left him!" she exclaimed. "C'mon, follow me. He'll probably be able to explain better than I can, anyhow." She dashed off with far more vigor than seemed possible her bedraggled condition.

            That solved the mystery of the "corpse" for Adeline, and also explained her companion's usage of the personal plural. "Hey, wait!" she called and sprinted to catch up. Her cramps had ceased now, but her strength was sapped and her stupid toe kept slowing her down. Luckily, she could follow her own trail of footprints back to the site where she had originally spotted the spooky scene. It was clear now; the feline had drawn the knife not with any harmful intent, but rather with the purpose of cutting the tape. Adeline felt like an idiot for overreacting.

            The clouds were beginning to part in time for the sun to make an appearance before sinking into the western horizon. Even so, it remained mostly dark under the leafy canopy of the Great Forest. As Adeline arrived, panting, back where she had began to run, the other girl was already there, kneeling as before, applying a dressing to a gash across the chest of her brother, a teenager—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—of the same species who grinned weakly as Adeline approached.

"Lexi," he said to his sister, "if we ever get home alive, you will never tell _anyone_ that my life was saved by a couple of adolescent schoolgirls." Adeline was almost offended, until she remembered she had recently had a similar thought concerning one about three years her junior. "I'd never escape the humiliation." His playful tone betrayed his own status, but he winced, as if it hurt to speak. Lying propped up against a tree that bore a mattress of moss at its base, he wore no attire save for shoes, gloves, and a scarf; the former two were brown, and the latter was a mottled green. _Obviously dressed for camouflage_, Adeline noted.

"I'm shocked that you would even consider that I might ever cause such a stain on your public image, dear brother," she replied with similar jocularity, as well as a linguistic aptitude that she had not displayed before. "I don't believe that we've even been introduced yet," she added, looking back over her shoulder at Adeline. "I'm Alexis—you can call me Lexi."

"Griffin," the wounded boy said shortly. He was as drenched as either girl.

"My name's Adeline," the young coyote said, "and now that we can all address each other by name, would you _please_ explain what the heck you're doing here, alone, in the middle of the Great Forest, with gashes the size of—" she paused as she searched for a suitable noun to describe the numerous severe cuts, and, failing to find one, simply stopped without completing her statement.

"We're lost," Lexi said bluntly. "We know that we're in the Great Forest somewhere—we're searching for Knothole Village; though our compass broke a little while back and the rainstorm a few days ago ruined our map. The ink's all run and we can't see a thing. But… you should be able to tell us. Where are we?" Once again, she did not even mention their injuries, but instead grabbed one of two small knapsacks that were lying beside her brother and pulled out a bottle of peroxide. Griffin hissed in pain as she poured it over yet another large cut, this one just above his hip.

The pestilent problem of Knothole's security reared its head again. The cats were both seriously in need of fast medical attention; else their wounds could become infected or, worse, gangrenous. They certainly looked like Mobians; however it was a fundamental rule, especially after the affair with the imposter robot that had managed to impersonate Princess Sabrina Acorn for a day and a half and was the cause of poor Randall's fate as an unwilling cyborg, to never judge by appearance alone. Also, even if they were true Mobians, they could still be spies… for whom, Adeline didn't know, but she was reluctant to take any chances. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm lost too," she said, managing to avoid an untruth while at the same time not disclosing any information.

Meanwhile, Griffin was turning her name over in his mouth and rubbing (bloodstained) fingers on his forehead, muttering it as if he was trying to recall something that he had heard before. There were about ten seconds of general silence as the two girls watched him ponder. He looked up at her finally, and asked, "Does the name "D'Coolette" mean anything to you?"

Adeline tried her hardest to keep a poker face, but t was impossible not to display surprise upon hearing this complete stranger speak her own surname. Griffin leapt to his feet, apparently ignoring his pain. "I knew it!" he cried. "I recognized your name from the dispatches; you're the sister of Randall D'Coolette!" _Dispatches?_ Adeline thought. Whatever he meant by that didn't really matter—he knew who she was, and who her brother was, which surely meant that he knew where they were from, as well. Now she, Adeline, was in a very sticky situation. She hesitated. What to do?

Griffin searched her face; he was very good at reading emotions, Adeline noticed. Lexi seemed to know that she should stay silent, and was leaning against a tree watching the situation unfold. Finally, the teenage tomcat snorted in an amused manner. "I get it," he said, "security." His tone was almost derisive, as if he resented being considered a possible threat. "Well," he continued, "let's see if _this_ sheds some light upon the situation." Then, in a dark and pseudo-mysterious tone, he began to recite.  "_For all those fleeing despots' cruel designs_ / _Are safe within this village's confines_." He finished, folded his arms, and grinned, knowing that he had dealt a telling blow.

That stopped Adeline dead, and she no longer gave a damn that she was gaping. The ancient creed was just as concealed as the location of the town itself; the only people to whom it was ever told were those who had lived there. It was to be used as a complete security override, and only in complete emergencies—anyone who knew it could be trusted in entirety. Yet… she had never known of either Lexi or Griffin before, and Knothole was no bustling metropolis. Most everyone knew each other, if not by name then at least by sight. Plus, from their dialogue it was obvious that they were not local… and, someone would have surely noted their absence by now, since they looked as if they had been in the wilderness for at least a week. So how did they know?

If there had been a leak, if someone who was a bit too ambitious had gotten a hold of those sacred words… well, then there was nothing to lose anyhow. So, barring calamity, the two cats had a strong enough connection to be permitted admission to the town. "All right," she said finally, exhaling audibly, "you win. Can he walk?" she added, directing the question at Lexi and pointing to Griffin, who had sank back down onto his soft resting place.

He grimaced. "Painfully." Taking a moment to collect himself, he rolled over and pushed off of the ground with both hands and feet. Adeline noticed the manner in which flexing his leg muscle contorted one of his injuries—a slashing cut along his calf—in a manner that was indubitably excruciating. Still, he hobbled only a little as he continued, "Which way do we go now?"

The question was a jarring reminder of their prevailing predicament. Adeline realized that, in the long run, she had still accomplished nothing towards finding her way home. By now, all that she had was a very general idea of their necessary direction of movement; their bearing could be anywhere inside a ninety degree arc from their current position. She almost laughed; all that she had achieved was turning a lost party of one into a lost party of three.

The feline siblings were still looking at her inquisitively. "Doing a lot of thinking about your answers, aren't you?" Lexi remarked bluntly. Griffin gave her a dirty look for the rudeness, but it was true; Adeline had been stalling after every question for nearly twenty seconds to carefully calculate her response. Lexi was right to be suspicious anyway. There didn't seem to be any point in breaking the pattern, though. _Maybe they'll think I have some kind of mental disorder_, she thought to her own inner amusement. They remained unaware of the fact that Adeline was just as lost as them, having probably thought her previous remark about being in the same boat a fabrication. Not desiring to enlighten them and perhaps have them lose spirit—of which their condition seemed to indicate a serious need of—she said only "Come on," and began to walk. Once again, she hoped to encounter something familiar from which she could locate Knothole… one of the paths that lead through the forest came this way, she thought.

They had barely walked a hundred yards in silence (save for squishes and splashes that their feet produced on the soggy ground) when Adeline stopped in her tracks. She could have sworn that she had just heard a distant cry. Yes, there it was again, a young voice from high above the trees calling… "Adeline! Adeline!"

"Tails!" she shouted joyously; how on earth had he found her? She began to sprint for the thinnest spot in the canopy she could find. "Tails! I'm down here!" Griffin and Lexi were trying to keep up, but it was clear that they were spent. "Don't go anywhere," Adeline called over her shoulder, this time first ensuring she would crash into no nasty obstacles while her head was turned. "I'll be right back! Tails!" She held the first vowel in the last shouted word for over five seconds, screaming the kit's name with all the air she could muster.

She wondered if she was even audible above the sixty-foot pines, and redoubled her efforts, yelling Tails' name over and over. Pausing for breath, she listened for a return cry; heard none. The thought of being directly flown over and missed was unbearable. "_Tails_!"

"You can, y'know, stop shouting now," he said behind her.

Adeline spun around so quickly she almost fell over. "Tails!" she cried again and threw her arms around the fox's neck in relief. He squirmed and wriggled free with a groan of embarrassment. "I was afraid you wouldn't hear me," she continued. "When did you know to search?"

Tails grinned, his three bushy red-orange tails completely dry owing to the rapid movement they underwent in flight, which completely freed him of clinging water. His body, however, was just as wet as hers; with the temperature dropping as the sun set that was likely to become a serious problem in another hour. Fur made for an excellent insulator… as long as it stayed dry. After that, it became more of a burden. "I think that the entire forest could hear you, Ade," Tails remarked, "so I certainly had no problem. I started looking for you about thirty minutes ago. My hiding spot wasn't _that_ good."

"Where are we?" Adeline asked. "I'm completely lost, in case you hadn't figured that out by now." The young cub could, however, easily figure out their location from a hundred feet in the air. His vertical mobility afforded him a sort of aerial photograph of any location he might visit; he was a living topographical map, and this was only one of many skills afforded to him by the exaggerated version of his father's strange mutation that he bore.

Tails pointed in a direction that, by now, could have meant anywhere. He clarified, however, "We're about… um… well, a ways from home in that direction." Adeline smiled inwardly; for all his talents, Tails remained a child with relatively little sense of distance, tending to radically distort lengths. Slightly embarrassed again, the little fox continued, "The nearest path is a ways off to your right, but the forest is much thicker there. You're probably best off bushwhacking; it thins out just north of here. I can help lead you back from above."

"North is… which way?" From now on, Adeline was carrying a compass _wherever_ she went… and maybe a backup for good measure.

Tails pointed again, this time in a direction roughly perpendicular to what he had indicated as Knothole's location. Then, all of a sudden, he slapped his own forehead. "I'm an idiot!" he cried, which was usually far from true; he had inherited a good deal of smarts alongside his useful alteration. "You don't need to walk at all; I can just fly you back. I'm good enough," he added, which was certainly not false; rather it was a severe understatement. He had more aeronautic ability than a good number of full-grown avian folks that Adeline knew of.

His suggestion would have been fine if it had only been the two of them. As it was, the proposition reminded her of her wounded companions, who by now had to be wondering where she was. "Actually, you'd better come here," she told him, and began walking back towards where she had left Griffin and Lexi. He followed without question as they traversed the short distance back, opting to remain grounded given that the foliage was rather thick for flying. Though they couldn't see it, the gathering darkness indicated that the sun was beginning to drop beyond the western horizon. Adeline quickened her pace.

The siblings were crouched, with their backs against two trees as the fox and coyote approached. Griffin did another blatant double take when he saw Tails, at which Adeline gave an amused snort. Lexi merely looked baffled. "But I thought… I thought he only had _two_ tails," she said, studying the members in question. "And he's way too young." The others merely looked at her. Comprehension slowly came over her face, followed quickly by embarrassment. "Oh…"

"Lexi, Griffin," Adeline said formally, "this is my friend Miles Prower; but I'm sure that you both know what to call him." They nodded. "Tails, these are Griffin and Lexi—" she broke off as she realized that she didn't know their surname. She inquired it of the two felines.

Griffin looked shifty. "It's not important," he said, and Lexi nodded, which naturally raised Adeline's suspicions. At the moment, however, there were far more pressing matters. "They're really going to have trouble walking," she said to Tails. "Are you up to three trips from here to the village? If so, it saves us a long hike in the cold." Soaked as they were, that hike could turn out to be more than uncomfortable, and of course it would be far worse for the cats.

"Of course I could do it," Tails said with pride, but Griffin was shaking his head and Lexi looked just as uncomfortable. She articulated their concerns: "There's absolutely no way that either of us could survive a flight like that through open air. Have you ever taken one?" Adeline nodded, yes, they were very rough. Consistently bobbing up and down, sometimes jarringly, was strain enough on a healthy person. It could easily kill someone already in near-critical condition. So could hypothermia, though. She asked what always seemed to be the obvious question: "So, what do we do?"

"Well," Tails said, "I do have an idea…"

Twenty minutes later, the dissonant percussion of helicopter blades could be heard directly above where Adeline and Lexi stood. (Griffin had finally passed out.) Tails, in no way tired even after making the trip to and back from Knothole to alert the town of their plight, held one end of the stretcher that was lowered. Miles Prower, Sr., a renowned hero across the planet, took the other end while Adeline and Lexi helped strap the comatose teenager on. Then father and son, tails whirling, flew the litter back up, deposited its cargo to waiting physicians, and came back for a second trip. Once Lexi was securely inside the copter, Tails came back down alone to retrieve the last member of the party. He and Adeline gripped each other's wrists and the ground dropped out from underneath them. Moments later, they rejoined their new acquaintances in the back of the helicopter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

            "For all practical purposes, these two have no business being alive."

            The doctor, of the gopher persuasion, had spent most of the previous evening with his colleagues examining Griffin and Lexi, who had fallen sound asleep in the hospital wing the instant they had arrived. They were still out, hooked up to intravenous machines and heart monitors. The mountains and valleys that the lines that the latter displayed seemed to contradict what the practitioner believed should be true. The strangers still breathed; their pulses still beat, but if not for either random luck or divine interference such would not be the case. Nobody believed that, were they still in the woods, they could have lasted through the past night, which dipped below freezing and came close to breaking the record low temperature for the month.

            As a precautionary measure, Adeline and Tails had been ordered to spend the night in the ward as well, though not in the emergency room like the others. They were now up and about, but having nothing better to do, they were loitering in the lounge awaiting news. Adeline's cyborg brother Randall had joined them. Being not only partially robotic but of an entirely different species, nobody would have ever guessed that they were related at all. Their friend Princess Sabrina Acorn had somehow managed to get off of her private lessons, and so was also hanging around in the foyer. The two newcomers had been briefed; they now knew as each other about the situation, which really wasn't too much. Now the physician stood before them and told what could be deciphered from Griffin and Lexi's condition.

            "At least a dozen flesh wounds apiece," he said, "and they've both lost a lot of blood. He's taken three bullets, one in each shoulder and a third in the behind, though we were able to get them all out. She's got one lodged in her hip that we're having trouble removing without causing complications. Yet, somehow, not only are they alive but the older one's actually awake and talking. These are a couple of tough kids you've picked up here." The wonder in his voice emphasized that point. The gopher continued, "He asked to speak with you two," nodding towards Adeline and Tails. "Said that he owes you an explanation."

            Sabrina looked irritated—she visibly wanted to hear the full story as well. Before she could say anything though, Randall, polite as always, nodded. "Go ahead," he told them. "You can tell us everything when you come back." Placated by his logic, Sabrina also acquiesced, if still slightly grumpily. Composed to wait, rabbit and squirrel-chipmunk hybrid retreated to the soft couches from whence they had come while the other pair followed the doctor into the unit.

            Griffin was indeed awake, and chatting with another visitor while propped up against several pillows. Lexi was in the next bed over, some fifteen feet away and still sound asleep. Adeline took a closer look at the other caller—and realized that it was Laertes, the aged falcon regent. _Of course_, she thought, _he has to know what's going on, too_. She wondered why she and Tails merited being part of the same audience as the current highest member of government. _Probably because we're the only other people he's met_. The cat looked up as they approached his bed. "Ah, good, you're here," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "I avoided telling you anything too much about ourselves out there, for a few reasons that you can probably decipher yourselves." Adeline could guess: he didn't know if they could be trusted then, and he probably hadn't wanted to tell his story twice, either. "Now, however, I can tell the three of you my true reasons for being here—and the reasons for my condition, as well as that of my sister. Have a seat, and I will be more than glad to share our story

            "I live in the land of Downunda," Griffin began, in a tone that suggested he had rehearsed this line, "far to the southeast of here; I assume that you know of it." All three nodded. "I bring news as distressing for us as the unfortunate loss of your monarchs are to you: our terrain is being held under siege."

            "_Siege_!" Tails got the word out first, followed shortly by Laertes and Adeline. If not for history class, the younger two barely would have known the word, each having been born a few years after the Robotnik war's end. The _pax mobii_, as some called the past decade up to six months ago, had known no large-scale combat. This was alarming news for the entire planet; no wonder the two felines had sought out the clandestine control center of what small military forces remained on Mobius' western continent. Laertes remained calm enough to ask, "Who? And the more important question is… why?"

            "That's the strange thing," said Griffin. "The attack force appears to be concentrated partially of dingoes. They, of course, have a reason for aggression—it is their original homeland. As you know, after they were banned from the Floating Island, we tried nine years to appease them by returning adequate portions of land. We could not, of course, restore all of their former living grounds due to the fact that so many others had settled there. The dingoes still harbor a deep resentment for our "stealing" their homeland; although they deserted it when they sought to take over the Island."

            Laertes growled. "The idiotic echidna democracy should never have passed that legislation, the one that forbid the dingoes ever to return to the Island. Though had always been some conflict between them, the two species did manage to coexist relatively peacefully. It was the extremists on both sides that started the war. Establishing that law was merely installing a bitterness that paved the way for an occurrence like this."

            Adeline remembered what she had learned in school. "The echidnas loyal to the traditional government blamed the dingoes for collaborating with the Dark Legion echidnas, the ones who rebelled. That was their rationale for the proclamation of mass exile."

            "That's ridiculous," Tails said. "Why would they join forces? For the most part, they loathed each other... and still do, even more."

            Griffin looked at them admiringly. "You obviously pay attention in class, that's for sure. Yet the oddity is that there _are_ echidnas amongst the hostile forces, working side by side with their mortal enemies. Our best guess is that they are the remnants of that mutinous Legion; why remains a mystery to us as the only two prisoners of that kind that we have managed to take swallowed cyanide at the first opportunity."

            "Are there any other specific large groups that we should know of?" asked Laertes.

            "Weasels," Griffin spat. "Exactly what you would expect from the vicious filthy scum. Their exact motives are also indefinite, but their general malevolence is well documented. They tend to work as mercenaries, too. That just about sums it all up; a few random varieties have also been observed, but the three that I mentioned appear to be the dominant phenotypes."

            "Dingoes, weasels, and echidnas," Adeline summarized. "How many?"

            "Far too many," Griffin replied sourly, "and that flippancy is my way of saying that we don't have a clue—but certainly enough to isolate Downunda's entire eastern province. The west, what little of it is desirable as living space, is mostly inhabited by those who cling to a traditional and primitive lifestyle, shunning easterners as selfish and immoral. They want as little truck with us as possible; we can expect no assistance from them. The invaders are no fools—not only have they cut all cables of any significance, but they're somehow jamming our wireless communication as well. We're completely cut off from the rest of the world."

            "Wouldn't somebody notice if all contact with Downunda suddenly ceased?" asked Tails.

            "Our large island is mostly self-sufficient; we have so little contact with the rest of the planet that a week without news could easily be dismissed. Monthly dispatches containing news of high importance do make their way in and out, of course." Adeline had not known of such messages; now she understood what the feline had alluded to during their conversation in the forest. "In some time, someone probably would have thought the oddity strange enough to warrant inspection. By then it would have likely been too late. As I previously mentioned, we are able to survive by our own resources and a simple siege would concern us little. However, our foe does not intend to merely block imports and starve us out. Bit by bit, they are tightening their cordon, closing in on our capital: Luanyu." Griffin gestured with his hands, digits representing advancing armies, and slowly squeezed both into one collective fist. "Village after village has fallen. Like the snakes that they are, they intend to circle, squeeze, and crush us."

            "An ancient battle plan," Laertes remarked, "but far from an ineffective one. Continue."

            "My sister and I were one of five separate teams sent to convey the message to Knothole as quickly as possible. I know not what became of the other four, though I fear the worst. I shall spare you the tedious details of our adventure, but in essence we were forced to steal a plane of weasel design; any of our own craft would not have survived the gauntlet, but the masquerade worked for long enough."

            "It can't have been as easy as you make it sound," said Tails, "or you'd be somewhere besides an emergency room right now." He indicated the wounds that Griffin had yet to explain. They were anything but insignificant.

            The cat sighed. "Well, I'd still rather not talk about it, but… a pair of dingoes, an echidna and a weasel discovered us before we could make off with the airplane. Thankfully, no other enemies were nearby, but these four attacked. The dogs and rodent had guns, and they used them." He paused to rub one perforated shoulder, remembering the pain of the bullet that surely still lingered. "Lexi is an expert with knives, and can throw one accurately over twenty yards. I'm an archer, myself… and we're both well trained in martial arts. We disposed of them—I hate myself now, because I have to say it, but… we killed them." He hung his head; he obviously had no taste for bloodshed.

            "They were the enemy," said Laertes, deadpan, who had known more battles than he had tail feathers. "You did what you had to."

            "We thought that we had shaken all of our pursuers," Griffin continued, "but a ways in from the eastern coast of this continent, a second plane appeared out of nowhere and opened fire on us. It was like a scene out of hell; the nose of the plane exploded and the windshield shattered. Worse still, we couldn't eject because our parachutes would have made for easy targets. So we managed to slow our nose-dive enough to allow the other plane, the pilot clearly thinking us dead, to get far enough away that we could jump. I have no idea where our own aircraft crashed, but we came down in the middle of a huge forest with only our barest supplies. You know the rest."

            There was silence in the ward for about ten seconds following the narrative. All attention was on Laertes, who himself was deep in thought. Finally, he said, "I will need some time to consult with my advisors. This is certainly a very dire state of affairs, and my opinion should not be the only one voiced."

            Griffin looked appalled. "But the situation requires immediate action! Without assistance, Downunda may fall within a week!"

            "I realize that," the falcon said, "but hasty and rash acts do more harm than good. I shall call an emergency meeting to discuss our response to this development—I can promise you a decision within twelve hours." He stood and flapped his battle-scarred wings once to stretch. "It was a pleasure to meet you, son… I hope that you heal quickly, and my best wishes for your sister as well." With that, he strode out the door.

            Sighing, Griffin lay back down on his hospital bed. "He's right, of course. Yet at times I wish that some rulers had more of an impetuous streak. Downunda needs aid, and she needs aid _now_."

            "If you wanted to meet an impetuous king," Adeline remarked dryly, "you would have been well-advised to have come about two weeks ago." The truth in that won a laugh from the boys. There was no telling exactly what Sonic would have done by now if faced with an identical situation, but sending as many forces as he could muster to crush the invaders was a likely possibility. Thankfully, he happened to be wed to just about the most levelheaded person that Knothole could boast, which distilled much of his hotheadedness. Indeed, the government had been stable before the chemical catastrophe that had resulted in Laertes' being thrust into the top position of power.

             Though it was probably nearing time for Tails and Adeline to depart, one last thing occurred to the coyote. "You've solved every remaining mystery for us," she told Griffin, "except for the biggest. The code that you recited, as you must know, is completely top secret. Only those who have established permanent residence in Knothole can be taught it, and, unless I'm mistaken, you've spent your entire life in your homeland. How in the world did you learn it?"

            The first genuine smile that she had seen from Griffin all morning came across the tomcat's face. It reminded her the one that he had worn in the woods just before speaking the sacred couplet; since he was about to divulge where he obtained such information, the semblance seemed appropriate. "Our parents lived here long ago, during the Robot Wars against Robotnik and his minions. On a mission to Downunda, which happens to be my father's homeland, they failed in their objective and several of their comrades needlessly lost their lives." His face sobered while saying this, the unnecessary demise of friends had to weigh heavy on his parents' consciences. "Feeling disgraced, they chose not to return, but instead remained and have lived as respected citizens ever since."

            The last puzzle piece clicked into place for Adeline. "Your mother's name," she said slowly, "is Hershey."

            Griffin nodded. "And our father is Geoffrey St. John."


	3. Sabrina

Chapter Two: Sabrina 

            A beam of sunlight caught Sabrina flush in the face, jerking her awake just before the mysterious stranger had turned around. Why did that always seem to happen? Just as a general rule, one always was roused an instant before discovering the pivotal key that would assumedly reveal the solution to their dreams' mysteries. In this case, Sabrina had somehow known that whoever was under that dark cloak was not only an enemy, but also one whom she had believed to be an ally. She had advanced upon the conspirator, who had remained completely oblivious, occupied with something that would now forever remain unknown. Having heard Sabrina's footsteps a moment before she would have reached him—or her, she had reminded herself, even in her sleep remembering not to be chauvinistic—the shrouded traitor had been beginning to turn when the ray had jolted her into consciousness. She opened her eyes, and immediately blinked several times, covering her face with her arms to shield the blinding brightness. The light wasn't natural—rather, it came from the numerous florescent lamps that illuminated Knothole, and were slowly brought to full power at dawn and evening to best simulate a sunrise—but apparently it made no difference when shined in one's face when they were trying to sleep.

            "Morning, princess," Yvonne said, tying up the curtain. She had dyed her quills platinum blond, a vicious contrast with her jet-black body. The porcupine had a small obsession with consistently changing colors; though her fur was currently its normal hue, it could range from hot pink to navy blue to a vivid tie-dye. Royal families of the past would have been shocked, but Sabrina knew her parents—especially her father—were radicals who believed that keeping the township stable was more important than enforcing a dress code. Unfortunately, that leniency didn't apparently go as far as allowing her, Sabrina, to get a metallic stud through her ear.

            She yawned and looked at the digital clock on the table by her bed, then glared at Yvonne. "What the heck are you doing, waking me up at this hour?" she asked sourly. "In case you haven't happened to check the calendar, it's Saturday." Considering her vicious schedule during the majority of the week, Sabrina generally deigned to start her day slightly before noon on weekends. That fact combined with Sonic's tendency to hold to a similar schedule thoroughly exasperated Sally morning after morning. Thinking about her parents suddenly shot a pang of longing through Sabrina's heart, which she forced back before she began crying. That was to be saved for nights, alone.

            Yvonne knew nothing of the depths of Sabrina's pain, as the princess covered it with an impenetrable mask and tried to appear as if life had been no different for her over the last week—was it only a week? It seemed like millennia… "Apparently," the maid said, "you've got some sort of special lesson this morning. I'm supposed to tell you to haul your butt down to the hangar and bring a notebook. Beyond that, I'm clueless." She inspected a spot of scratched paint on one wall, probably filing it amongst her duties for the day. "Anything in particular that I can get you for breakfast?"

            "Eggs sound fine," Sabrina replied.

            "Scrambled, poached, soft-boiled, sunny-side up, omelet?"

            "Scrambled. With cheese."

            "Fruit? We've got oranges, apples, bananas, pears…"

            "Whatever's ripe," Sabrina responded, walking into the bathroom. She raised an eyebrow upon seeing her own image in the mirror; her fur had undergone significant mussing over the course of the night. _Must have really tossed_, she thought as she gave the shower nozzle a three-quarters turn, waited about fifteen seconds, and then stepped under the steaming water. For a little while, she could forget about the hell that she was living, and rejoice in the sheer bliss of warmth running over every inch of her body. After about a minute of soaking, she squirted a liberal measure of shampoo into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and massaged the foamy lather throughout her auburn pelt. Rinse thoroughly, repeat with conditioner, rinse again.

            She stepped out of the stall, dripping wet, and quickly toweled off before entering the dryer. Jets in the wall of the small cubicle sprayed hot air across her, and within a few moments no droplets still clung to her fur. Finally, standing in front of a large mirror, she brushed herself, carefully grooming every hair into place. Quickly returning to her room, she snatched her blue vest and boots, almost perfect copies of the ones her mother had worn in youth.

To say that Sabrina resembled the queen was about as huge of an understatement as calling the king fast. Had she somehow been able to travel through time and meet Sally, two decades ago, nobody would have been able to tell them apart—at least, by merely looking at them. Nevertheless, inconspicuous as they may have been, there were more than a few differences, for better or for worse. Sabrina lacked her mother's calm, calculating mindset (though not her intellect), instead inheriting her father's recklessness and inability to see beneath an issue. That was offset, however, by the remarkable physical abilities that Sonic's chromosomes had donated, including his legendary blistering speed and powerful destructive spinning capabilities. Sabrina didn't have spines to act as miniature blades while performing such an attack, but her hurtling body provided enough force by itself. She had demonstrated this fact on more than one occasion, generally at the expense of a punching bag or two.

Opening her door and dashing out into the hall, she nearly collided with an official looking vulpine who had chosen the wrong moment to walk by her room. Stammering a hurried apology to the fox, who looked just as flustered, she took the stairs two at a time and made a rather loud crash when her shoes struck the marble floor. A door on the other side of the main hall opened and a bespectacled hare poked her head out to investigate. Sabrina grinned sheepishly. The hare rolled her eyes and returned to her prior business.

As it had been for eight days now, the table was set for only one. To avoid having to eat alone, Sabrina had attempted to ask Yvonne to join her, but the maid had forcefully declined the privilege. _Honestly_, Sabrina thought, _some people are so self-degrading._ She supposed that Yvonne didn't want to accept any license that was not granted to all her peers. Either she feared their resentment or she simply was so satisfied with her lot that she refused to seek even a representation of higher status. Whatever the cause, Sabrina would once again lack for breakfast conversation. Instead, she found her small knapsack—the same cerulean shade as her other attire—and pulled out a biology textbook for some brief studying. After a second thought, she returned it and drew instead a novel that she had been assigned to read within the next week. It had occurred to her that reading about fungi spores might put off her appetite somewhat; especially with the full-color close-up pictures of bread mold that the primer provided.

She had just begun the next chapter, in which the protagonist and the valiant crew of his ship was apparently going to battle a vicious hurricane, when another kitchen worker appeared with a good-sized platter of scrambled eggs, a quartered pear, and a tall glass of orange juice. "Anything else that I can get you?" she asked through a thick accent that suggested origin on the far northeast of Mobius. That she was ursine coincided well with such a hypothesis.

"No thanks, Kostya," Sabrina replied. Then, out of curiosity, "Where's Yvonne?"

"Nicked herself with a carving knive," Kostya replied, "but she'll be fine. Unfortunately, she was preparing a batch of cornbread at the time, and some blood got into the mix. Too bad; it's such a waste to have to throw out that much."

Something didn't seem quite right about that. Sabrina figured it out: "Why was she using a knife above a bowl of batter?" Generally preparing such a mixture would involve cornmeal and assorted liquids, no process that would require anything sharp.

Kostya shrugged, set the food down on the table and stood back up. "Maybe she did it beforehand, and didn't notice until later. In any case, enjoy your meal; I've got other business to attend to." Most likely that would be helping to serve the rest of those who were to dine in the castle that morning. The popular image of a royal family involved dozens of servants pampering to the wishes of a few individuals alone, but this rather medieval image couldn't be farther from the truth. Actually, only about six or seven women tended to cleaning and cooking duties, while the regal building boasted over thirty other permanent residents, not including those who might be invited to a feast or banquet. The bear trotted back to the kitchen as Sabrina drove a fork into her eggs.

She tried to eat as quickly as possible; though Yvonne had not given her a precise time to be at the hangar, someone was obviously waiting for her. Having finished, she slammed her book closed and deserted her lonely place at the table. Some neatnik had relocated her bag from the random corner where she had left it to a hook set into the wall. _Whatever_, Sabrina thought, trading the nautical adventure story for a note pad and rummaging through her various items for a writing implement. Her fishing procured two pens; a quick scrawl test on the front page of the pad indicated that one worked. She tossed the dry ballpoint onto the rug. _The neatnik can pick it up_, she thought to herself, smiling.

She wished that there could have been words to describe smells as she stepped out into the lukewarm moist air that filled Knothole Village. There was no other way to say it: it smelled like spring. Strangely, Sabrina didn't much mind the humidity, though everyone around her always seemed to complain about it. Yeah, sure, it did some rather strange things to her fur at times, but it also gave a pleasantly mild sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket of vapor. At a fast walk's pace, she crossed to the far end of the town. Around her, folk were beginning their days; laborers and white-collar workers alike bustled about, en route to their separate occupations.

Many gave Sabrina a greeting in passing, but none fell upon their knees or threw their coats upon the ground so she could walk without dirtying her feet. She had always been taught to reject such outdated customs, and to remember that being a princess did in no case necessarily make her better or smarter than her neighbor. That had been drilled into her from when she was five, since the day that, upon losing to Adeline in a small game, she had thrown a fit, claiming that her status prevented her from a fair defeat. Oddly enough, it wasn't the queen who had delivered the first lecture on the topic; Sonic, being the only parent nearby, had been unexpectedly thrust into the undesirable position of first placating the young Sabrina, then proceeding to explain that particular rule of life without undoing the first step. He had done better than one might have expected, and that plus subsequent sermons that seemed to come on a monthly agenda had eventually driven the point home.

Hangar #2 was, like any other of its type in Knothole, built into an earthen wall; this was necessary due to the rather unique method by which planes entered and left the village. As she approached it, she spotted an avian figure standing outside of it. Coming closer, she identified the shape. "Chantel!" she cried gladly; lessons with her were always quite interesting. Chantel was the essence of the benevolent grandmotherly sort, the type of person who probably had a few hard candies hidden under one wing for some lucky pupil. The kestrel's beak lacked the vicious, foreboding scowl that graced the countenances of most raptors, and her eyes too betrayed the general hard look often associated with her sort. The only major fault that Sabrina could find with an otherwise flawless tutor was her choice of a husband: Laertes. The cold hatred that Sabrina held in her heart for the falcon had nothing to do with his personality, nor that he currently occupied the position held by her parents under normal circumstances—by all means, he was clever, polite, and functioning well in a position that he had not sought or wished to ascend to.  No, her reasoning was simpler still: had Laertes once not been denied his way, she would not exist. In her mind, he might as well have tried to kill her.

"Hello, Princess," Chantel said, smiling.

"_Sabrina_," Sabrina groaned. She had a name, and honestly would prefer to be addressed by it rather than be reminded of her cumbersome title throughout the course of every single day. "What's the deal, anyhow? I, like, never have lessons on weekends. What's going on?" Her language and tone probably betrayed what most expected of her, but, again, she really just wished that people would take off the metaphorical leash that prevented her from behaving like a normal young teenager. Was her fur any more special than the next guy's? Wasn't she just an adolescent like any other?

Chantel beam flickered; yes, she disapproved of the informal jargon. "I suppose you haven't heard of the decision that was arrived at last evening."

"'Fraid not. What's up?"

"My husband—the acting king, I should say—and his advisors have concluded that we as citizens of the planet Mobius cannot ignore the situation in Downunda, even if acting upon it causes some inconvenience to ourselves. You must always remember, my dear, that there are some who would have us adopt a strict _laissez-faire_ military foreign policy, and such simply does not work. We cannot turn a deaf eye and a blind ear—excuse me, a deaf ear and a blind eye—to the troubles of the rest of the world."

"I see," Sabrina said. She really couldn't have cared less, and she hoped that Chantel wouldn't choose to turn this particular lecture into a political jeremiad. "What does this "lazy fair" have to do with my not still being asleep right now?"

Now Chantel looked truly dismayed. "Sabrina! That was on your vocabulary list two months ago!" She appeared more troubled by her pupil's inability to recall the meaning of an obscure foreign term than her flagrant insolence. _Typical_, Sabrina thought. _I can be a complete bitch, every teacher's nightmare, and all that she'll pick up is that I didn't study my stupid vocabulary_.

She sighed. "Alright, I'll bite. What does it mean?"

Chantel looked down her beak at the princess; no easy feat considering the latter topped her by a good three inches. "I'll tell you on the way. Come on, let's go." She turned and walked into the hangar, which currently boasted only two planes. One was Prower's famous Tornado, gleaming where the few rays of sunlight that illuminated the large dim shed struck its freshly waxed nose. Its owner was not conducting his surveying duties at the moment, obviously due to the day. Sabrina, not so blessed, focused her attention on the second aircraft: Chantel's Monsoon. _Corny, corny, corny_, the princess had decided long ago. Storms, ooh. Perfectly respectable to name _one_ plane after weather phenomena, but other hangars at other corners of town held the Tempest, the Gale, the Blizzard, and many others. Whatever happened to originality?

The dilapidated Monsoon had once been Laertes' fighter plane that he used against Robotnik's steel minions; Chantel, a self-admitted minor kleptomaniac, couldn't bear to turn the craft into scrap, and took on the challenge herself of preserving its ability to fly. In the end, a few of the numerous mechanically minded citizens of the town had done most of the needed repair work while Chantel gave the body her best effort. The result of this was that the Monsoon flew well enough, and its many layers of added purple paint made the dings and scratches somewhat inconspicuous—at least, at a distance.

Unlike the open-cockpit one-seat Tornado, the Monsoon had two thick transparent shields over each compartment that popped open to allow Sabrina and Chantel to seat themselves inside upon the tough, torn, and slightly lumpy leather that Sabrina guessed had been one of the things _not_ replaced in the last fifteen years. Two helmets awaited them, complete with goggles; Sabrina's pair had a long scratch running down the right eye, which probably would have become an issue were she behind the controls. As things were, she wouldn't have great need of perfect vision on this jaunt. Annoyingly, she still didn't have a clue what the entire excursion was all about. Setting her notebook and pen down by her feet, she poked at the "on" button of the small radio transmitter set in the front of her small space. That, along with a parachute, was the only items furnished unto her for the duration of the trip. A speaker began to crackle in Chantel's voice, "… read me? Sabrina, do you read me? Sabrina, do you—"

"Loud and clear," Sabrina said back. In the forward cockpit, Chantel turned and gave a thumbs-up. Like most Mobians of an avian race, she bore anthropomorphic fingers with talons upon the dorsal surface of the hand. While these could serve as extremely nasty weapons for one of a more pugnacious demeanor, it was nigh impossible to imagine the kestrel resorting to such means to solve any conflict. Now she reached forward and pushed a succession of three buttons, then pulled a switch off to her right. Sabrina tilted her head upwards to watch the receding hatch in the ceiling. She smiled in anticipation; this was always extremely cool.

"Here we go," she whispered to herself as Chantel twisted a knob three hundred and sixty degrees clockwise. A motor, the sound of which was only barely audible through the thick glass, began to hum as a large rectangular panel of the floor, containing the Monsoon, began to rise. From Sabrina's perspective, it was more as if the rest of the room had dropped out from under her and the ceiling were closing down on the small ship. Instead of crushing them, however, the panel slipped neatly into the space previously occupied by the hatch door and the Monsoon emerged on the other side, still resting atop what was previously the floor. Now above the hangar, Sabrina was staring down a long lighted tunnel.

This was the reason for the building being built into the side of a cliff: Knothole was a subterranean dwelling. While this was ideal for secrecy, it was generally rather tough on planes, both inbound and outbound. Not only that, but its location in the center of an enormous wood also presented difficulties. The special design of the hanger allowed for a craft to be raised through the ceiling and into a hollow alcove above. From there, the planes would taxi down an underground runway for four miles, and open up at the edge of the Great Forest, the entrance being covered by a camouflaged hatch. There were five such exits, each with plenty of ways by which to prevent someone who happened to stumble across the opening from following the tunnel all the way back to the hidden town. Some of these were more lethal than others—it was a mandate: as a tyrant could rise again, Knothole's location _must_ remain undisclosed.

The Monsoon was now zooming through this paved chute, and as it would be at least a minute before they emerged, now seemed like an ideal time for Sabrina to inquire as to the two outstanding ambiguities: that of the term's definition, and that of their intended destination. The former seeming to require a less lengthy answer, she leaned forward and spoke to her microphone, "So, um, what exactly does that word mean now?" She hoped that Chantel would be able to simultaneously answer and maintain the plane's straight course down the runway.

The eternal static came through over the reply. "_Laissez-faire_, or 'leave alone' can mean, in a strictly governmental sense, a type of economically isolationist foreign policy that attempts to pretend that the rest of the world does not exist—a more impartial definition would call it an doctrine prohibiting governmental interference in commercial affairs. Used more loosely, the term can simply refer to any form of noninterference, such as military indifference." After sorting through the doublespeak, Sabrina had a pretty good idea of what was meant. It sounded fastidiously radical; anarchic, even… yes, she decided, that didn't seem very practical.

"Alright, I've got it, thanks," she replied. Just then, the slope of the corridor began to steepen and a modicum of natural light began to seep into view as the hatch at the end of the tunnel began to open. The Monsoon began to accelerate, and Sabrina squinted as the full force of the bright sunlight shone directly into her eyes. _Again_, she thought. Then the brightness was on all sides, and, after blinking several times and waiting for her sight to regain its normal contrast, she could see the ground dropping away from her as the plane mounted into the bright sky. Behind her, the entrance to the tunnel sealed itself and, to the naked eye, completely disappeared into the surrounding foliage.

In front of her, Chantel pushed the controller stick about thirty degrees to the right, and the Monsoon complied, turning to set its course on the ocean shoreline about twenty-five miles to the south. Her voice came in over the transmitter: "Is everything all right back there?"

"Couldn't be better," Sabrina replied, then, on an afterthought, "unless you finally deigned it appropriate to inform me of where we're headed."

Chantel's laugh floated over the radio. "Yes, of course. You could call it a field trip of sorts, I suppose. A small fleet is being deployed this morning from Red Sands Harbor to aid the people of Downunda in their struggle; your other tutors and I have decided that it would be fitting for you to survey the vessels and their crew. Should you someday rise to the same position as your mother has, you may yourself someday have to make decisions concerning transport and—although I hope not—war."

It made sense now. "When are they leaving?" Sabrina asked.

"If all goes smoothly, you will have just about an hour. We'll have a free rein, so we can explore every part of the ships, and you'll be able to interview members of the crew—hopefully, if he isn't otherwise occupied, I can arrange a short chat with Captain Levine. He should be most informative."

_Hmm_, Sabrina thought, _this could turn out to be almost worth the loss of sleep…_

"You will, of course, be required to take extensive notes on everything you see, and a three page handwritten report will be due upon your next lesson with me… which will, I believe, be Wednesday."

_Crap._

They sat in silence for a little while, Sabrina going over in her head everything that she knew about modern naval craft and things pertaining to it, which was precious little. The book that she had been reading was set six hundred years in the past, and most of her studies of war had involved airplanes and their innumerable uses in the lovely art of slaughter. For that matter, she wondered why the counter-invasion required ships in the first place… wouldn't an aerial approach have been just as effective? It occurred to her that if she were to have an audience with the captain, she would probably want to have a few questions prepared in advance. Flipping open her notebook, Sabrina jotted down that which she had just been pondering, as well as a few other inquiries that she felt would contribute nicely to her report. When she had exhausted her mind of that, she thought about what else would be interesting to see. It had to be armed, as they were going to be going straight through an enormous blockade. Definitely the hold: she could fill up a good amount of paper with mundane lists of the various types of cargo. Sleeping quarters and the like… kitchen, engines…

"Attention, ladies, gentlemen, and princesses," Chantel said, her voice a fair parody of an airline pilot's, "we are beginning our gradual descent into Red Sands Harbor's only runway, which was, last time that I checked, in rather ramshackle condition. You may wish," she added, "to double-check your seat belt. Chances are that this landing will be less than enjoyable." Chantel was living proof that a teacher could be serious about her lessons, but still make them fun with quips and witty banter. It was what made her so enjoyable—she realized that learning didn't necessarily mandate banality. Indeed, too, the plane was beginning to lose altitude. Far below her, Sabrina could see the large artificial harbor created by the breakwater that jutted out from the land like a thin curling tentacle. The bulwark was crested with a thin white layer, caused by the incessant crashing of waves upon its rocky surface.

The Monsoon descended rapidly until its wheels touched the surface of the lone asphalt strip and bumpily coasted to a halt. Sabrina's hatch popped open and she gingerly eased herself out, using the small handholds on the side of the plane to slowly slide to the ground. Stretching to relieve the stiffness that the brief ride had produced, she caught sight of a volitant Mobian disengage himself from his task—which had been hovering in midair, passing directions to a group of bulky badgers that were dragging heavy boxes around—and fly over towards them.

"Greeting, princess," he said, landing and bowing slightly. Then, to Chantel, "Morning, mom."

"Good morning, Alexander," Chantel replied pleasantly. "How are things?"

"They're coming along," Alexander said, swiveling his head momentarily to check on the progress behind him. He was in his early twenties, and has physical characteristics that were a perfect blend of those of his parents. Like Laertes, the spots on his chest were abundant, but his beak was shorter and his eyes kinder. "We're finishing up the freight loading, and doing routine things, such as getting the latest weather forecasts and checking our fuel. Just the final stages before embarking."

Chantel glanced at Sabrina, who caught the meaning, grabbed her notebook, and flipped furiously to find an empty page. "Lesse," she muttered, scribbling, "freight loading… weather forecasts… fuel… What sorts of cargo are you bringing?" she asked, recalling her earlier thought.

"Food, of course," Alexander responded, "and although the ship is equipped with desalinization technology, we have fresh water as well in case it breaks down. Weaponry… explosives, firearms and ammunition, more primitive weapons…"

"Firearms?" Sabrina broke in. Such armaments were banned by ancient Mobian law that had never quite been removed from the books, although in the last year of the Robotnik war, a few decrees had been passed to allow for minimum controlled usage. Most soldiers still preferred more archaic types, from crossbows to swords to even hand to hand combat were they physically skilled enough. Sabrina would have been less surprised by the decision had it not been announced by someone from a family that tended to cling to time-honored traditions.

"Yeah, guns. Weasels use them; I'm betting the dingoes will be, too. You may, however, want to gloss over that particular point in your report." Sabrina nodded. "There's also medical supplies, and general travel gear such as backpacks and sleeping bags. After we bust through the blockade—hopefully—we'll need to advance further on land. That's about as much as I can tell you; the rest of our plans are confidential." Reacting to what must have been an outraged expression from Sabrina, he quickly added, "I don't make the rules, you know. I just honor them"

"Are you yourself going?" Sabrina asked, continuing to write. Somehow it seemed like the sort of thing that she should already know, but it hadn't been made clear to her yet.

Alexander shook his head. "No, I'm only organizing. I'm not the warrior my father was."

Sabrina kept her own opinions on Alexander's father to herself. There was something else that she had had in mind to ask, but it had only recently occurred to her and so was not written down. Now having forgotten it, she instead turned her attention towards the wharfs, where three iron ships of medium size were being fitted. Some of the loading was done mechanically, the rest by manual labor. Along with Chantel and Alexander, she had just begun walking towards the cruisers when she remembered what she was previously going to ask. "How long will you be sailing for?" she asked without breaking stride. "Sailing" wasn't really the right word, as the vessels bore neither mast nor rigging, but it would suffice to communicate her general meaning.

"If the good weather holds up, as we believe it will, two to two and a half days maximum. That's just the sea voyage; after that we may have to fight our way to land and, as I mentioned, continue on foot."

"If you're going to fight on the ground, shouldn't you have tanks and stuff?" Sabrina asked. They were now standing ten feet from the prow of the largest of the three ships, the _A.K.S. Mobotropolis_. There was some general movement on board; the deck gun was being polished, some of the crew were boarding and loading their few personal items, and the unremitting loading continued. It did seem like an awful lot for a two day voyage, but Sabrina supposed that they had their reasons. She mentally stored it as another question to ask of someone.

"No tanks," Alexander said shortly. "Guerillas don't do particularly well with enormous vehicles. They would sort of be like a neon sign saying 'hi, we're over here', wouldn't they?" Sabrina had little time to feel stupid before a loud roar echoed across the docks, numbing her ears for a moment. She spun around to see a second plane touch down on the runway and coast to a stop precisely where the Monsoon had been before a crew had parked it in a safer spot.

Chantel was the first to identify the aircraft. "That's your friend Tails' Duststorm," she remarked. "I wonder why he's here… or why he's lent his plane to anyone."

Indeed it was Tails, with siblings Adeline and Randall, who had been forced to share a single seat on the Duststorm. Sabrina jogged out a short ways to meet her three buddies. A thin ray of sunlight reflecting off of Randall's metallic legs found a course directly into her eyes and blinded her momentarily. She shook her head incredulously—light was not being friendly to her today at all. "Hey guys!" she said upon recovering. "What are you doing here?"

"In a word, we were bored," Randall replied, grinning.

"That's three words," Adeline supplied needlessly.

"The key word was 'bored'," Tails said. "Honestly, I never thought that I could find so little to do. We contemplated getting lost in the woods again for fun, but it fell through."

"Who knows what you might have come across this time," Sabrina teased.

They spend a minute throwing out random suggestions as to what Adeline and Tails might have encountered during a second visit to the forest and laughing about them. Then Sabrina sobered for a moment. "Someone _does_ know that you're here, right?" She suspected that this was the case, owing to Randall's supreme regard for the rulebook, but it would be safer to check. She didn't want to be held responsible for a hypothetical problem she wanted nothing to do with.

"Oh, yeah," said Adeline, "they were happy to be rid of us. Randall's our…" she coughed in a mock disparaging manner, "… babysitter." It made more sense now; Tails was a skilled enough pilot that Antoine and Bunnie would certainly trust their children in a plane with him, and Randall was mature and competent enough that neither Miles nor Fiona would be unlikely to have a problem with leaving their son in his care. Plus, these days adults were happier with fewer kids underfoot as they struggled to regain a semblance of normalcy in their lives.

The three newcomers were introduced to Alexander, who knew of each of them but had not met them in person. "Would it be alright if they walked around with me?" Sabrina asked. It would make the entire episode far more enjoyable if she had her friends exploring with her.

Chantel nodded. "As long as they don't interfere with your research."

The kids exchanged a round of high-fives. Suddenly, a sequence of beeps began coming from Chantel's waist, where her pager was strapped to a brown belt that she wore. Surprised, she reached down and plucked the small device from its sheath. "They wouldn't have rung unless it was highest priority," she muttered, looking at the screen. "And apparently it is. That's rather strange; I've just been told that I'm needed in Knothole immediately. What on Mobius could be more important that this certainly escapes me, but we had better return right away."

"What about… y'know, the ships?" Sabrina asked. "Are we not…"

Chantel growled, an uncommon sound to hear from her. "I suppose not. This had better be vital, to be getting in the way of your lesson, or there's going to be… a hot place… to pay."  Shaking her head, she began walking back towards the runway when Alexander stopped her.

"Hang on, mom," he said, "there might still be a way. I'm scheduled to be here until noon." He looked at Sabrina. "If you wouldn't mind hanging around the seaport for a couple of extra hours, you could still get your project done and then catch a ride back with myself or anyone else."

It was a logical suggestion, although Sabrina didn't relish a few more hours of her Saturday being eaten away. But Tails and Adeline didn't seem to mind, and Randall produced a deck of cards that they could use to burn the excess time. So, Sabrina agreed, with one last question. "Who's going to be our guide, if you have to return?" she inquired of Chantel. Surely they wouldn't be allowed to wander the boats themselves; who could say what that might produce? _Probably nothing_, Sabrina thought, _but adults are always so paranoid._ Then she halfway took that back, remembering that the other kids had been allowed to fly here by themselves. _Alright, maybe they're reasonable_ sometimes.

Alexander grimaced. "I can probably get off for an hour to show you around; I'm sure there's _somebody_ who'd love the opportunity to boss people about for a bit and would be more than happy to fill in for me." He glanced at a watch on his left wrist. "We'd better get a move on," and to Chantel, "See you later, mom."

"Have fun; take care!" she called to the five of them as they walked briskly towards the waterfront. Three long piers jutted out into the harbor, each boasting their own ship. The _Mobotropolis_ was flanked by its sisters, the _A.K.S. Great Forest_ and the _A.K.S. Flaxton_, named after a settlement to the southwest of Knothole. All three were ironclads; their shiny hulls freshly scrubbed clean. Two satellite dishes graced the front part of the body, a single one in the back. Two brown bears lumbered by, headed for the _Flaxton_. A tenrec was standing at the bow, watching the commotion below. An enormous gaur with only one eye sat on the ground, polishing a sword that matched him proportionately. Hanging from the deck by a rope tied to a harness, a female marmot with a bottle of cleaner and a rag was washing the porthole windows.

"This way," Alexander said. The children followed him, weaving through the moderately dense crowd to a walkway connecting the _Mobotropolis_ to its corresponding dock. A wide-eyed tarsier, apparently in some type of hurry, came flying down the extension and Randall had to move quickly to avoid him. Bemused, he followed the other four up the ramp and onto the ship.

The deck was just as teeming as the docks below—Sabrina estimated at least a hundred folk who looked to be suiting up for the expedition, and perhaps twenty or twenty-five more merely assisting in the preparation. Alexander seemed to know where he was going, though, so Sabrina kept right on his sneaker-clad heels. "We'll see Captain Levine first," he said without breaking stride, "and then check out whatever else you want to see."

"Alright," Sabrina said. The others voiced no dissent.

A thick steel door sheltered the interior cavity of the vessel from its exterior. A second level was indicated by a steep stairway, which they took. The upstairs floor was small, and boasted only the captain's quarters and, across from them and facing the front of the ship, the steering area. The hall between the two was no more than a fifteen-foot square with a picture of the ship hanging on the side. The wall of the cockpit facing them was transparent, so they could see the helm and countless other navigational equipment. Although it was hazy through two panels of glass, they could also see back towards the piers, and Sabrina could just make out at a distance a bright red splotch that she supposed was the Tornado. 

Alexander walked forward to knock on the door of Levine's quarters, but before he could rap the door opened and he had to quickly step back to avoid being clonked in the beak. A young ferret girl in a brown dress—perhaps six or seven—came out and looked fairly surprised to see five people occupying the rather small space outside the cabin. "Um… hi," she said shyly, and then, alarmed, looked at the falcon, recovering from his slight start. "Oh, no! Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine, Dinah," Alexander said with a smile. "Is your father in there?"

"Yeah, he is," she said, rocking from side to side, "but he's kinda sorta busy right now—and not too happy, either. He didn't want to come play with me," she added, most likely feeling that to deny her such a privilege would be a cardinal sin except under the most dire of circumstances.

"What's he doing?"

"Talkin' to some boring guy." Dinah scrunched up her face. "I think he made an error on somethin'." She giggled. "Bet Mom'd be angry with him if she was here."

            "We don't want to disturb anything," Sabrina whispered to Alexander. "We can come back in a little bit."

            "Alright," Alexander replied. "Where are you going now, Din?"

            The girl looked shifty. "I… I guess I should go find Tyler." Without an explanation of who Tyler was, she shimmied down the near-vertical steps and was gone.

            "Aww," Adeline said, "cute." She gave a squirming Tails a noogie, and put on a false baby-talk voice. "I wemembah when you was just like dat."

            "Glass houses, Ade, glass houses," Randall smirked.

            "Let's get a move on," Alexander said firmly, but he was smiling too. "If we can't talk to the captain right now, we can go see the galley, the cabins, and the holds. Rihwin, the cook, is a good friend of mine; I could probably procure a small snack if you wanted."

            "We just ate," said all four kids, nearly in unison.

            They descended back down to the dining area, which was filled with tables. A couple of cheetahs sat playing cards; the obvious and overused pun on their species name nevertheless gave Sabrina some brief inner amusement. They paid no attention to the passer-bys, who went through a blue swinging door into the kitchen. An antelope was testing the dishwasher in a corner while an elderly turtle wiped off a counter. "'Morning, Rihwin," Alexander said to the turtle.

            The turtle turned to see his guests. "Ah, excellent to see you, Alex," he replied. "And… Princess Sabrina, an honor." He tilted his head slightly forward. Sabrina's request to simply be addressed by her first name collided with Alexander's protest against the colloquial nickname so that it was likely Rihwin heard neither clearly. "What can I do for you today?"

            They went through a brief and mostly monotonous interview, Sabrina taking notes and trying to keep her subject from drifting off onto random tangents. Having, she felt, gotten the necessary information for this section of her report, they bid Rihwin a fair voyage and went down into the bowels of the ship. Two cabins were set apart for male and female crew—Sabrina made sure to remember to mention that the former was rather larger in her paper. A quick look at the rows of cots (in the females room, of course) gave her all of the information that she needed about that.

            "What next?" she asked. "The holds?" Alexander agreed. Adeline, Tails, and Randall seemed quite happy enough to trail her and make small talk; they put up no suggestions for an alternate destination.

            Cargo was still being loaded into the holds, which were in the deepest part of the _Mobotropolis_. A small hatch in the side of the vessel opened up to a wide conveyer belt Crates were brought to the belt by workers outside the ship and carted to their appropriate destinations. There were two separate compartments; Sabrina was told that one held supplies that would be necessary during the passage such as food and certain weaponry. The smaller back hold held more things that would only become necessary upon reaching Downunda, such as packs, camouflage clothing, and other essentials. The loaders paid little to no attention to their observers, concentrating instead on the task at hand. Seeing that she would get no useful commentary from them, Sabrina decided to explore the second section, which had fewer workers to get in the way of.

            As usual, the others followed her in. "Wow," she heard Tails say to Adeline, "check out how thick these walls are," Sabrina backtracked and looked. Indeed, they were about half a foot thick, of pure solid metal. "Why do you think that is?"

            "Dangerous stuff down here," Alexander responded. "All of the explosives. If this ship is engaged, it may be fired upon. In such a case, it would be essential that no fire or blast reaches this stuff, or else…" He let the words hang, and Sabrina could well picture the ensuing pyrotechnics that would result from such a calamity.

            Randall read the label off of one box: "High Quality Polyvinyl/Polyester Rain Gear". He looked up. "Does it rain often in Downunda?"

            Alexander shrugged. "Now you're talking to the wrong guy."

            Near the back of the hold, which was actually nearing the middle of the ship as its entrance faced the stern, the dark room opened up in a T-shape with boxes still lining each wall. A couple of olive green boxes down on one end of the extra area piqued Sabrina's curiosity, and she walked over towards them. The others came to investigate as well. "Warning," she read. "Biochemical Weapon". She looked up, wide-eyed and startled.

            "What!" Alexander cried, pushing through to see. "I don't believe it! The nerve of them; there's absolutely no way my father could have ordered this!" He glanced at the other boxes as well. "All chemical weapons… this is ridiculous! Do they plan to decimate innocent civilians to repel this threat? Once this stuff is released, there's no controlling it! It could turn Downunda itself into a toxic wasteland!"

            They had been so preoccupied with the discovery that they had failed to notice two more workers bringing in yet another crate. From their vantage point, they couldn't see them, but they heard the voices. "This the lot?" one asked.

            "Yeah," the other replied. "C'mon, lets get out of here."

            The implication of those words took about fifteen seconds to sink in. Then Sabrina suddenly raced back to the intersection of the two semi-compartments just in time to see the last slimmer of light vanish as the heavy steel door closed shut with a phenomenal boom and the world disappeared into darkness.

            Her scream was no more than wasted breath. They were trapped.


	4. Tails

Chapter Three: Tails

Thirst.

There was one good thing about it—it made you forget hunger.

Tails curled himself up into a ball and lay on the cold metallic floor against one of the shelves that lined the walls of the hold. His throat was in agony; his mouth felt as if he had just polished off a couple dozen saltine crackers in a row, parched and sticky. He longed to swallow, but each time he tried it brought only a fresh paroxysm of intense pain. His eyes burned for lack of moisture. He knew that he was suffering from extreme dehydration, and if this lasted much longer, he could suffer serious damage.

Hallucinations danced in front of him… most holding to an aquatic theme. He saw lakes, rivers, and waterfalls spontaneously appear from the darkness to tantalize him with their flowing elixir. Just to move was a challenge; even in the worst of circumstances, Tails knew exactly how and why his muscles were failing. Water being the body's transport system, a deficiency of the vital liquid would result in an inability for the essential nutrients and energy to reach where they needed to be. On a similar note, Tails had never been a particularly stocky kit, and had little fat to speak of. Without food to burn, his body would soon resort to eating away at its own muscles to produce the necessary energy for normal functions. Recalling all of this helped him to concentrate on things besides the toll that their confinement was taking on him.

Tails was far from the only one experiencing such horrors. Sabrina, Adeline, and Alexander had been reduced to similar pathetic states, slumped on the floor, exhausted but unable to sleep. Randall's cyborg state was once again serving him well, as his robotic appendages required only half the energy needed to power organic limbs. Thus, he was faring slightly better than the others, and acting as a measure of comfort, especially to Adeline. He was with her now, being the big brother that he should, helping his little sister through this terrifying tribulation.

At first they had talked, talked of aimless matters merely to pass the time. Soon this became nearly impossible as their voices dwindled to mere croaks, then, for the most part, vanished. Time itself had no meaning, as they had not even a speck of light to hold on to. All they had was an almost negligible sensation of rocking to let them know they were still alive. It was plenty to drive a man mad; Tails wondered if such had already happened. Then he decided that if he was sane enough to ponder if he was mad, he hadn't passed that threshold yet.

Probably.

There was another issue as well; that being that all living things, by no means excluding Mobians, produce wastes. The unrelenting caliginosity afforded them all the privacy they could want, but they unfortunately lacked any sort of sanitary location to heed nature's call. They had decided on one of the arms of the T—without ignoring the opportunity for a bit of ironic symbolism, they chose the floor directly next to the biochemical weaponry. It was messy and humiliating, but they had no other choice. It also smelled very, very bad. Eventually, one became accustomed to this as well. It was surprising how low one could sink when their very survival depended upon it.

Alexander had said two to two and a half days. Tails knew that you could survive for about three without water. The falcon had also sounded wryly amused about something, when Tails inquired, he noted that they were actually in the safest possible place on the ship should it be attacked.

"What, surrounded by explosives?" Sabrina had asked incredulously. "Locked in a room without escape?"

"The walls, Sabrina," Tails had reminded her. "For the same reason we can't get out, or tell anyone that we're here, we can't be hurt."

Sabrina remained pessimistic. "Fat lot of good that'll do us if they sink the ship. Then we'll just have the pleasure of starving to death twenty miles underwater." Despite the fact that lack of fluids would kill them first, she had a rather valid point. The only problem with her logic was that their hypothetical attacker would be unlikely to leave any survivors anyhow.

They wouldn't need to be sunk to meet such a fate, however, if they weren't released soon. Tails' mind wandered to the most random of places; he thought of icebergs, of flowers, of Robotropolis's towering skyscrapers and flying to the top of them. He daydreamt of accomplishing glorious things, wild fantasies of heroism that would forever place his name alongside his father's in the history books. He imagined wide-open blue skylines, clear air, the pristine beauty of the sprawling plains below as he soared effortlessly hundreds of feet above the ground. The last time that he had gone this long without stretching his tails with a good, long fly was over three years ago, when he had been bedridden with the flu. He had thought that he was truly suffering then, too. _I guess the moral is that it things could always be worse_, he thought. _Odd time to be so positive, but what else can you do?_

Tails was quite suddenly airborne.

This was not because of any action on his behalf, but rather because the entire hold had lurched to the side at about a forty-five degree angle, sending all five prisoners sailing into the shelves. Tails flew, took the brunt of the impact with his shoulder, and slumped, barely conscious. Faint noises could be heard through the (soundproof?) walls, low rumblings, then quick short blasts. The entire room abruptly shifted again, sending its unfortunate occupants sliding across the floor to slam into the other side. _Great, now they're having the decency to speed up our deaths. What the hell is going on?_

Alexander managed to croak out one word: "Battle."

The _Mobotropolis_ was under attack!

Tails reminded himself that to even think that fatal optimistic statement was to invite fate to toy with you a little more. For the next half hour—fifteen minutes? an hour? who could tell? —they were tossed about the hold like dice until they each got a weak hold on something and fought with what pathetic strength they had left to keep it. Adeline was too far gone; she lost her grip and began to slide again. Quick as a flash, Randall shot out his extendable robotic limb and hauled her back, now struggling as much as anyone from the effort of having to support another as well as himself.

The fox kit's keen ears tried to catch any sounds from above that might clue him into what was happening. Since they had heard absolutely nothing up until the sudden tilt, Tails hypothesized that either the clamor was of truly massive proportions, or a section of the wall was damaged slightly. He heard no voices, but more dull rumbling sounds that surely suggested firing being exchanged between the _Mobotropolis_ and its allies and whatever foes they might have crossed. It gave Tails a nasty shock to realize that any moment their ship could sink to a watery grave, and them with it. The sheer realization that he could do absolutely nothing about it was the most horrifying part.

Then the noises and wild undulating stopped.

A new terror seized the bedraggled captives. The silence could mean either of two things—life or death—and there was no way of knowing which. Had the ship survived the gauntlet, for them to be freed from their horrible prison very soon? Or had it been dispatched to the depths, to rest as a relic upon the ocean floor, and for them to slowly and painfully die in complete darkness? Even to the last breath, they would still be watching, waiting, hoping desperately that there was just a delay in unloading, that someone would release them any moment…

An agonizing half-hour passed, as the young prisoners waited, hoping, praying.

Then two loud cracks reverberated though the hold, those of a wheel being turned and a lock slipping. A sliver of light appeared and began to grow as the door opened, illuminating their jail, permeating luminosity throughout it, shining upon the disheveled inmates where they lay. Tails blinked staring at it. The simple movement had his tearless eyes screaming in pain. He kept them closed, content to simply soak, bask, rejoice in the return of the brightness denied to him for so long. They were saved.

"Come on, let's go!" a voice called from the door. "You've got those crowbars?" A pause, then, loudly, "Phew, what the _hell_ reeks so bad in here?" Then a dead stop.

"I could only find three, and one's bent…" said a second voice, then trailed off. "Something wrong, Lars?"

Lars was assumedly the name of the guy who was now standing, open mouthed, staring at the four half-dead children and their former guide (in no better status). In the odd combination of what seemed bright to one penned up for so long, but was actually rather poor lighting, Tails could not make out his species. He flinched looking at an unconscious Adeline, her head resting in the metallic lap of her older brother. He seemed paralyzed, unable to believe what he was seeing. Then he recognized Sabrina, and his eyes went as wide as his mouth.

"Princess…" he said in a hushed whisper, then, his astonished gaze never leaving Sabrina's face, "Sef! Sef, damn it, drop the godsdamn crowbars and get the captain! Now!"

"What?" Sef asked. "But he's… he's…"

"Do it!" Lars yelled anxiously.

The next five minutes passed by without a word being spoken. Lars kept looking at them, from Tails, to Randall and Adeline, to Alexander, but mostly at Sabrina. He seemed paralyzed, unable to take any sort of action. Here were four half-dead children of revered war heroes, yes, that he might have been able to handle. Here was also the half-dead likely successor to the throne of the kingdom of Knothole… now _that_ was a serious issue. Sabrina's presence turned moderate calamity into full-scale disaster.

It was a bizarre situation, to be sure. Tails wanted to dash out of the stuffy hold, to breathe air untainted by the stench of biological wastes, to guzzle water and greedily devour piles of food until he burst, and to, most of all, rush to the deck take off, circle high above the _Mobotropolis_, tails whirling, soaring, joyfully exulting in the wonderful freedom of the great blue sky. Absurdly, he felt a moment of rage against Lars. _Don't just _stand_ there, you idiot—get us to a freakin' doctor!_

Someone was returning. Tails, with great relief, heard Sef's excited fast chatter, Levine's standard, calm, and authoritative replies, and a third voice that he didn't recognize. He didn't have a chance to find out whom that voice belonged to though, not right then. It was then that he finally surrendered his fate to his rescuers and slipped into unconsciousness.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He came to. He was lying on a cot, and even with vision heavily blurred, could tell he was in the shade of a large tree. Considering the fact that trees do not habitually grow on ships, Tails would have liked very much to ask where on Mobius he was. His throat was no longer burning, but his vocal chords would not respond. He tried to sit up and couldn't. A strange feeling in his left arm led him to tilt his head in that direction and realize that he was being fed fluids intravenously.

"This one's awake, Doc!" a female voice said, and continued, "Just lie down, honey. Everything's all right. Just relax, don't try to move. You're very weak. Just stay where you are." Tails managed a low groan and relaxed, knowing she was right.

Dr. Horatio Quack was an elderly duck who had been practicing when King Acorn was in his prime. He and his son Gregory were the two leading medical specialists in Knothole; Greg had stayed behind to care for the still-cataleptic royalty while Quack volunteered to accompany the soldiers to Downunda. War produced no shortage of casualties, and an experienced doctor was highly prized in any armed force. Now, however, the doctor was not digging bullets out of muscle or applying a tourniquet to a bleeding artery, but tending to five extra burdens—five burdens who were a long way from where they ought to be. Four _young_ burdens, one _royal_.

"Hey, you little stowaway," Quack said affectionately. "I was wondering if you'd ever wake up… and you're not even the last. How are you feeling?"

Tails brought his right hand, the one free from the IV, to his throat in wordless communication of his speechless condition.

"Ah, okay. Well, I assume that you want to know what's going on?" Tails nodded. "I'll try to keep it as brief as possible; I have others to attend to, but you do deserve to know. Most of it is good news. Two destroyers attacked us about a half-mile offshore; we sank one and wounded the other, although it managed to get away. You were discovered as we were unloading; with nothing else to do, we brought you to shore and some of our stronger soldiers carried you here, about two miles inland. That boy was right; you can't get a radio signal out of this place. Some type of large-scale jamming is my best guess."

Tails' vision—and mind—were starting to clear. He went through a few brief charades, asking for pen and paper. Upon their deliverance, he scribbled a word, thought for a moment, scratched if out and then wrote, "How are the others?"

"'Bout the same as you," Quack replied. "All on IV's. It'll be at least thirty-six hours until you can walk again, two days minimum before you can move out of here. You don't seem to have suffered any permanent damage, else it'd be a lot longer."

"What's going to happen to us?" Tails wrote.

"Oh boy," Quack sighed. "Let me tell you something, son… your being here has screwed up a lot of things, which is why it's so important that we get you moving again A.S.A.P.. The original plan was for our troops to move for forty-eight straight hours, slip through enemy lines, and rendezvous with our allies in Luanyu, Downuna's capital city. As things are, however, we can't make any decent progress until you can move along with us. Obviously, we can't get you out of here… you're stuck with us. I only pray that none of you get hurt…"

Stuck! Not only stuck, but stuck and stalling an entire legion of warriors! Warriors that would have to, soon enough, enter into full-scale combat… and what would he do then? Tails wanted to bury his face in his hands. They were screwing everything up! He was going to be traveling with an army; he was going to be in the midst of a battle; he was going to be watching people die around him! He could easily take a bullet himself! What was one small fox, to a ruthless enemy trying to savagely conquer an entire island continent? Would they even care that he was only ten?

Then he began to reconsider. Yes, indeed, right now he was a problem, an enormous problem, and nothing more than a problem. He was not, however, completely devoid of abilities. Hadn't his father played a significant part in saving the planet—countless times over!—when he was no older than Tails was now? Adventure! The word was magnificent, filled with a ringing sense of freedom and independence. It was from adventures that glorified heroes sprung; it was this sort of adventure that had filled the thrilling novels that used to captivate his every spare moment! In a flash, despair and shame transformed into visions of valiant deeds and strategic marvels that left foes chewing their own tails in defeat. So overcome with this newfound confidence was Tails, that he once again tried to sit up on the cot, made it about halfway, and then crashed back down, his wild fantasies landing on top of him like so many heavy sacks of potatoes.

"You've got spirit," Quack said without condescension. "Well, you've heard all of the bad news, but here's the good: as far as we know, they haven't found us yet—'they' being the foe, naturally. We're using radar-deflection technology and we're under rather good tree cover, but, as I may have mentioned, we're only two miles inland. They obviously know of our presence somewhere near the southeastern shoreline; that destroyer that escaped…" Apparently unable to find the proper, he gestured to imply that the ship would have certainly set off quite a few alarms by now, and Tails again weakly nodded.

"However, our technical guys say that that odd radio shield they're using isn't particular to us; they've made a huge gamble by shutting down all forms of wireless communication throughout the entire eastern continent. Our best guess is that they couldn't find a way to just jam ours. So, that destroyer—assuming that they had nobody capable of flight on board—would have had to limp all the way back to port to deliver their news." An astounding gamble it was, indeed. The invaders had been forced to blindfold themselves in order to do the same to their foes. As things were, though, that would have worked out quite well in the assailants' favor… had it not been for Griffin and Lexi, braving all odds to bring the saving message to Knothole.

"In any case," Quack finished up, "as I said before, to them we could be anywhere on the southern shore. That still leaves them with over a hundred square miles to search if they assume that we could be up to five miles from the coast. We have troopers surrounding the area; no skirmishes to date, but it won't last forever."

Tails was again filled with chagrin. Before, he had thought only of his own disgrace and welfare. Far, far worse though… soldiers that should have been charging Luanyu were instead wasting time protecting a small group of kids—and some of those brave militants could lose their lives for him, his error, _his godsdamn fault!_

_ My fault! My fault!_ Like a broken record in his cerebrum. _Deaths!_ _My fault!_

He summoned the strength to roll over onto his side, away from the doctor, who sighed again. "All right, rest up. You'll need it. All we can really do now is keep pumping you with calories and nutrients and hope for the best." He started. "Oh, Bun—I mean, Randall's awake, excellent." He walked off, saying something to himself about jump-starting Randall's robotic legs. If he meant what Tails thought he meant, he had better be careful. The fox kit wondered how Quack intended to prevent a jolt of electricity from also jump-starting the rest of Randall, with less desirable effects.

Tails fell asleep and awoke six hours later, feeling a good deal stronger. He again tried to sit up and found to his surprise that he could do so without too much difficulty. A screen monitoring his heart rate also boasted a small digital clock that read "19:52". _Army time_, Tails thought wryly. _Just one more friendly reminder of where you are._

He yawned, stretched his arms, and heard bones crack. Yes, he had indeed been motionless for too long. He hurt all over, but he could move… and, he soon discovered, talk. "Water," he rasped to Gregory Quack, who had come to inquire how he felt. The physician quickly complied, and Tails downed the glass with alacrity. Still somewhat hoarse, he thanked the doctor.

"Applesauce?" Gregory asked, producing a small cup of the mashed fruit and a disposable spork. Tails accepted; the cool smoothness provided further relief as it slid down his still-irritated gullet. Gregory waited for him to finish, then accepted the plastic container and utensil back and tossed them into a trash receptacle. "Feeling any better?"

"Much," Tails replied. It felt good to have his voice back, hoarse or not. Then he let loose with the barrage that had built up inside of him during his temporary inarticulacy. "How are the others? And everyone else—I mean soldiers, too? We haven't been attacked, have we? I'm doing better; I really am. They won't attack at night, will they? I think by tomorrow I'll be ready to walk… I… I think…" He trailed off into silence.

Gregory had listened to this tirade with a smile, hearing his patient out in full before responding. "I guess I'll answer those in order. Your friends are all fine; Alexander is even on his feet, if wobbly, and we got Randall's artificial circuits working again. Indeed, you all _should_ be able to walk by tomorrow, although we're not going to try to push you any more than necessary. There's been no attack, and everyone is okay… although we've gone to two-thirds rations to conserve—" He broke off, mortified, with a hand over his ginger beak. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Tails said, "it's all right… thank you."

"Thank me? Thank me for what?"

Tails didn't honestly know quite why he had said that, but when he thought about it, he really did have plenty to thank the medic for. He had plenty to thank everyone on this expedition for. _Plenty to apologize for, too_, nagged a small part of him, but he pushed that thought aside. "For the applesauce," he said matter-of-factly. Half a beat later it occurred to him how idiotic that must have sounded.

It caught Gregory off guard, too. He stared for a moment, then suddenly broke into laughter. Tails joined him as best he could without hurting himself too badly. It _was_ rather funny. Applesauce. Hell.

He briefly considered asking someone about those deadly chemical weapons in green boxes that they had seen on the ship, and then decided against it. It wasn't any of his business, and he was sure that Alexander would make enough noise about it by himself. Considering his connections (not that Tails didn't have plenty of his own) his opinion on the matter would certainly be heard. Tails decided to leave such serious matters to those who knew how to deal with them. He never had any interest in becoming a politician. He had never had any real interest in soldiering, either, but events had taken him in a different direction. Dismissing the thoughts, he asked for something to read.

By the next morning, he was indeed up and about. His IV and heart monitor had been disconnected, and he was eating solid food. He could feel strength returning to his muscles and was fervent to fly, but under strict orders to remain grounded he restrained himself.

Sabrina and Adeline spend the morning sitting and playing cards, while Randall underwent a thorough examination by the contingent's mechanic, a middle-aged mouse by name of Machiko. With her petite frame and soft voice, she didn't have the appearance generally attributed to her profession. However, after five minutes with a couple of various wrenches, a pair of pliers, and some copper wire, she had succeeded in restoring his systems to near-perfect status. Randall demonstrated this by extending his roboticized left arm to twice its normal length, then jogging briefly around the area, every artificial joint functioning perfectly. Tails knew that even with the intense mechanical education passed down from his father he could not have done as well. There was certainly something to be said for experience.

Tails watched in envy as Alexander stretched his wings with a low-level flight just under the canopy level. With more body weight to speak of, the falcon had come through the affair better off than anyone except Randall, and thus was granted the privilege first. It wasn't much—hard flapping at fifteen feet certainly didn't compare to riding a warm thermal through an open sky—but at least he was in the air. Tails gave one of his three bushy appendages a bored bat; the tail flopped limply onto its companion duo.

He wondered what they would do if they found themselves suddenly under attack. Could he run? In fear of his life, yeah, probably, but certainly not very fast. What if they were bombed? Man; one well-placed firebomb could eliminate the five of them in a blinding flash of flame… and who knew how many others in the group would perish? They had to get _out _of there!

By four in the afternoon—_1600 hours_, Tails thought—he was finally given the green light to fly. After over four days, he wondered if he even could. With all of the others watching him, he found what he thought was the spot with the fewest branches overhead, took a deep breath, and flexed the muscles that would put his remarkable tails into action. There was a spasm of pain (yes, indeed, he was still somewhat sore) but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, concentrating on his task at hand. Slowly, his three tails began to spin, at first merely flopping over each other, then, faster, building up to a steady whir. He felt stiffness begin to fade and his own body becoming lighter and lighter until finally he pushed off of the ground, bent forward, and gave an extra surge of effort to the spin, and he was airborne.

"Yes!" he whooped, and flew straight upward, stopping just short of where the branches grew too thick for him to penetrate. Down below, his four companions clapped while the Quacks looked relieved. Tails decided that he'd passed the first test, and wondered if he could go a bit beyond. _It'll scare the heck out of 'em, too_, he thought, grinning. He relaxed slightly, enough for the spinning to slow down, and began to fall… slowly at first, then faster.

He had been only about forty feet from the ground and had only a moment to enjoy the panicked expressions on everyone's faces before he kicked back into gear. Swooping so low that he grabbed a handful of sod off of the ground and carried it back up with him, he could hear the angry exclamations of his friends. _Heh, okay, maybe that was a bit too rash. But you know it, baby… can't keep this fox down! Marching? Battle? Bring it on! I am _so_ ready!_

The fates obliged him.

A sudden burst of gunfire ripped through the air, followed by a loud _boom_ that shook the trees and sent the cots and gurneys toppling over. Sabrina and the older doctor lost their footing and fell in the mud; the others managed to barely keep their balance. "Attack!" came a voice (was it Sef's?) from a good distance away. Others fast took up the cry. Guttural shouts tore through the air, then more shots and a scream of agony.

"Godsdamnit!" Randall swore, a rare oath from him.

Tails threw away the soil and soared higher into the air. He felt no pain or weakness; adrenaline now surged through his body. This was when he could put his best skill into action; he could scope out the entire battle from the air and report back to those not so gifted with the power of flight. It occurred to him, even now at the most inopportune of times, that he should consider cartography as a profession. It was part of his father's work, anyhow. He tore his mind away from maps, preparing to dodge branches and break through the canopy to get a decent look at what was happening where. Here came the lowest and thinnest limbs now… he hoped his tails wouldn't catch…

"Tails, you numbskull!" Sabrina shouted is a rather unprincessly manner. "You want to bring a freakin' "shoot me" sign up there with you while you're at it?"

That gave him pause enough to descend a little, back into the range of loud speech (especially loud over the constant cacophony of shouts, yells, and gunfire). She had a good point; he would have made an excellent target hovering just above tree level. Still… "But I can let everyone know where the enemy is!"

"That's no big secret, young'n," remarked Horatio Quack, pointing in the direction of the rather overt noise. He turned to Sabrina and Adeline. "You… do you think that you'll be able to jog, perhaps sprint sometimes?" They nodded without too much hesitation; Alexander and Tails also voiced their affirmation. "Well, all right… I guess we had better get moving. As much as I like you kids, I sure hope I won't be seeing you very soon." Tails also hoped so, quite fervently. He submitted to gravity and slowly came back to earth. The two doctors began packing up their supplies.

A short fennec fox came sprinting into the small clearing where they had been resting. Tails didn't identify him as Sef until he spoke, even quicker and more panicked than usual: "You guys gonna be okay to move out?" Again, they all nodded. "Great. Now, luckily, we've got a few extra packs that we brought in case some got damaged, so each of you will still have the necessary stuff. But, since you're in no shape to carry these suckers, some of our guys are going to take two." Five rather large soldiers entered; two brown bears and a black, a very muscular orange dog, and the one-eyed gaur that had been cleaning his blade back at the docks, long before the kids had ever considered that they might end up on this crazy trip. They each wore green-brown vests; the three ursines also had long pants of the same mottled color, and the black one wore wire-rimmed glasses. "Rowan, Mohawk, Orson, Tahmores, and Everett," Sef introduced briefly. "They all know all of you. You'll be staying with them for the duration of your little "field trip", so get to know your buddy. Pair up."

The four kids and Alexander looked at each other, all waiting for one to make the first move. Finally Tails shrugged and stepped forward to Tahmores, who happened to be directly in front of him. Their fur color was a near match; the darker tint that the fox kit inherited from his mother made the difference. Adeline approached Rowan; Sabrina, Mohawk; Randall, Orson; and Alexander, Everett. The last pair seemed to be familiar with each other; they shared a quick grin and head nod.

"A pleasure, Mr. Prower," Tahmores said politely.

"And you," Tails replied. Tahmores was carrying two hefty packs, but bore no visible effects of strain. The canine unshouldered one of them and handed it to Tails, who accepted it and felt the weight. It was probably thirty or thirty-five pounds—in full health, the kit could have carried it well enough; still in recovery from malnutrition, he didn't have a prayer. Resting it on the ground, he opened it at took a quick look through the contents: camouflage clothing, desiccated rations, matches, a pocketknife, water purification tablets, a map of southeast Downunda, a water bottle, emergency food bars… and several magazines of ammunition. He picked one up and inspected it: seven lethal 12mm bullets arranged in a neat row. The side pockets of the bag were filled with loose cartridges. "Why do I have ammunition?" he asked his new mentor and traveling partner.

"What good is your gun without it?" Tahmores asked bluntly. He reached into one of the two holsters that he wore on his olive green belt and withdrew a black pistol that he casually pressed into Tails' right hand. "Careful. The safety's on, but it's loaded."

Tails had to fight not to drop the gun, not because it was particularly heavy but from the sheer shock of holding it. The coldness of the metal seemed to permeate through his glove, run up through the veins in his arm, and freeze his brain. He stood numbly, staring at the obsidian weapon he held in his right hand. "I—you want—I don't know how…" he stammered. It was dead weight on his palm; he could not bring himself to take a firm grip on the latticed handle.

"Kid, I hate to tell you this," Tahmores said, "but you're in a war now. Enemies aren't going to take a good look at you and weigh any moral objections before opening fire." He pulled his own gun and rubbed a finger along the barrel. "Nobody with any brains goes into battle without a weapon."

Tails nodded; he understood. What a mess they were in! There was every chance that he… that they could easily… but that wasn't what he wanted to think about right now. Slowly, his fingers tightened around the grip of the gun. It terrified him; the entire concept terrified him. He was a _kid_… a ten-year-old kid from a society that had supposedly done away with guns long ago. Yet here he was holding one, perfectly real and loaded, able to destroy life with a twitch of his finger. It made him feel powerful, and he absolutely hated it. He knew well that power was far more curse than boon.

Over the distant fire, a far more local shot sounded. Alexander had flipped off his safety and fired at a tree. Bark dust formed a small cloud; when it cleared, there was a neat little hole in the wood. He nodded and flipped the small switch back to "off". He had donned the earth-tone vest supplied in his pack; it gave him the appearance of a soldier. "You guys ought to put these on too," he called to them. "They're bulletproof."

_ Ah hah._ Tails brought out the protective coat and strapped it on. It was slightly heavy, but he figured that he could still probably fly. As for running… well, he had never been a demon in that category anyhow. In fact, he was downright sluggish. He had tried spinning his tails to speed him up (yet another trick of the legendary original Miles Prower) but found himself unable to concentrate on both feet and tails at the same time, and consequently ended up tripping and slamming into the ground rather hard. Thus, he vastly preferred the air, where even famous Daddy didn't stand a chance. He and his triple gift had been proving that for some time now. Two tails simply could not compete with the force of three… no more than one could with two.

Another shot rang through the air, and a second. Two more holes appeared next to Alexander's. Sabrina and Adeline held their individual weapons, a wisp of smoke rising from each barrel. Randall had no firearm. Instead, his robotic left arm emitted a pleasant whirring sound and altered itself slightly. A beam of laser light flew forth and blew off a large chunk of the tree. It staggered, but did not topple. The five soldiers murmured in admiration, and Randall's yellow and white face spread in a grin. "That was a medium setting," he said matter-of-factly. "Not bad, huh?"

"Not bad at all," said his partner Orson. "That's gonna come in handy."

Tails was the only one left to test his weapon. He flicked off the safety with his thumb, and aimed right above the signifigant dent in the trunk made by Randall's laser. He had been told once after watching an fictitious action movie that one-handed firing was harder, less accurate, and far less realistic than using both to operate the pistol. He had never thought he'd be in a position to use such information… _Well, you are now_, he thought to himself, _so get over it_. His hands trembled, and he took a deep breath to steady them. Holding it, he swallowed and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded, the recoil startling him so much that he dropped it on the ground. He carefully bent over, embarrassed, flipped on the safety, and picked it up.

"Well, we'll have to work on that," Tahmores laughed. "Still, though, nice shot."

Tails looked at the tree and was surprised to see his hole exactly where he had aimed. He gripped the handle with more confidence now. Maybe he _could_ do this.

But when a living, breathing Mobian was in place of that tree, would he still be able?

"Well, that concludes your crash course," Sef said, "so let's get going."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Exactly thirty-eight hours later, Tails was fast asleep in Luanyu. He lay sprawled on a couch, his fur caked with grime, dirt, and blood. None of the last substance was his own, luckily, but it easily could have been. He wasn't dreaming, but even if he was, the worst nightmare ever imagined in the mind of the most twisted horror writer alive could not have frightened him now.

He had just lived it.

The moment that the last syllable of the word "going" had left Sef's lips, it was punctuated by a fifth sharp retort that sounded from behind him. The sound was different than that produced by the weapons Tails, Adeline, Randall, and Alexander had fired. It was duller and slightly louder, but it was still clearly a gunshot. The front of Sef's throat was torn open, his fawn-colored fur suddenly dyed an unmistakably vibrant red. He clutched at his neck and opened his mouth to scream, but only another torrent of blood came forth, splattering the leaves and soil on the ground. The bullet had struck him in the back of the neck and pierced both his esophagus and jugular. He collapsed in a heap, a small puddle of fluid forming around his twitching corpse.

Tails had no more than half a second to gape stupidly at the carrion that had been Sef before he was viciously knocked off his feet and rolled, coming to rest behind a large oak. He tried to struggle to his feet, but was held down forcefully. "Don't move!" growled a voice, and he took a moment to realize that it was Tahmores. More gunfire sounded; a bullet made a dull _thunk_ as it struck the tree in front of them. Tahmores kept Tails' shoulders pressed to the ground, then, slowly, began to let him up.

"Stay here," the dog ordered. "Stay behind this tree. Don't endanger yourself unnecessarily, but shoot if you have to." With that, Tahmores leapt to the right, rolled again, and came up with his back pressed to a second oak about fifteen feet away, pistol raised. The dirt where he had just been was suddenly ripped up by gunfire. He waited for the shooting to stop, then swung out from behind the tree and fired twice into brush about a hundred yards ahead. Rustling of leaves indicated a scramble of some sort; whether or not he had scored was unapparent. By the time more shots were fired his way, he was once again behind cover.

Tails looked around, making sure that all parts of his body remained protected. He immediately spotted Rowan and Adeline flat on their fronts behind thick brush. No bullets came their way, by which Tails inferred that the unseen enemy didn't know of their location. Rowan had a sniper rifle (_is that what they're called? Where have we been _keeping_ these allegedly illegal things?_) trained on the other bushes from which the slugs had been materializing, but held fire. Randall and Orson were under the heaviest volley, not only individual shots but the occasional machine gun blast as well. Like Tails and Tahmores, both had taken refuge behind trees. For just a moment, Randall left his roboticized left side exposed, and a loud _clang_ joined the cacophony as he was hit. "Man!" he shouted, apparently unhurt and sounding halfway amused. "I _hate_ dents!"

If the roar of crossfire hadn't already been deafening, it certainly was a moment later as an intense rattling sound went off behind where Tails was stationed. He whirled, raising his pistol, (he had almost forgotten he was holding it,) wondering if a foe had snuck up from behind. Instead, he saw Everett blazing away at the brush with a heavy machine gun. He was completely in the clear; Tails couldn't see Alexander anywhere. Two bullets struck the gaur in his thick vest, but he didn't seem to notice. Then his unprotected shoulder exploded, and with a roar of agony, he dropped back under cover. The bulk of the firing once again concentrated on Orson and Randall.

"Backup!" someone shouted from the area that they had all been firing at. "We need backup!"

Tails tightened his grip on his yet unfired pistol, checked that the safety was off, and prepared to leap out as Tahmores had done. He didn't know how accurate a pistol would be at this distance, but he was prepared to make the effort. But before he could spring, a huge explosion rocked the ground and lit up the vicinity. Tails' eardrums felt as if someone had mistaken them for timpani and began beating on them with hard mallets. When it subsided, any nearby shooting had ceased. Breathing hard, he looked at Tahmores, who hadn't moved from the second tree. His lower leg was bleeding—it appeared that he had been just grazed—but he was otherwise unhurt. "Don't move!" he repeated, and Tails followed the advice.

Two minutes passed. Finally, Rowan took hold of his pack and quickly raised it in the air, bringing it back down again just as fast. No one fired at him. Tahmores and Orson performed similar tests, with the same result. Cautiously, Rowan raised his head and, deciding it was safe, motioned to everyone else. "Stay behind me," Tahmores ordered quietly. "Stay low. If they fire again, get behind the nearest cover." He began to slowly creep forward, pistol at the ready, and, apprehensively, Tails followed him. They had left the clearing now, and he could see that the woods had been lit on fire by the blast. He tried to make himself as small a target as possible and kept moving.

He didn't have to move slowly for long. "It's safe, guys," came a husky voice from ahead. "Blew 'em away. Come on over here."

"You're sure, Mohawk?" Tahmores asked.

"Just one left alive when I got here, and I put her out of her pain," Mohawk replied. "She wasn't gonna live, anyhow." Tails barely took notice of his former foe's gender, which at another time might have come as a surprise. Male or female, they had been trying to kill him and his friends. At that point, femininity made little difference.

After that, they were able to straighten and jog forward, evading the flames. Mohawk was standing in the center of a small black crater, twiddling the pin of a grenade between his thumb and forefinger and whistling softly. "I haven't done that for sixteen years," he said, looking around with both awe and reminiscence. Sabrina was with him, and only one emotion showed on her face: pure revulsion. She looked ready to throw up.

The center of the crater was, in fact, not too bad in comparison to its perimeter. It had been a raiding party of five dingoes that had stumbled across their temporary medical hideaway and killed Sef, and now it was an ex-raiding party of five very dead dingoes. One's body had been almost completely incinerated by the detonation; almost none of his physical features were any longer recognizable. His camouflage clothing had fused to his fur and skin, and the stench was horrible. A second had been disemboweled. His intestines were spread around his body like a gruesome rope, and his liver was hanging to his corpse by a few sinewy threads. (Seeing this, Sabrina _did_ vomit, and had to turn away.) The third and fourth were female; the former had been forcefully blown backwards headfirst into a tree, breaking her neck; the latter had a bloody stump for a right arm—Mohawk had delivered the merciful _coup de grace _through her skull. The last appeared to have died before the grenade was thrown; he had been farther away from his comrades. In the end, that hadn't helped him—he had not been wearing a vest, and a bullet had gone directly through his heart. In comparison to the others, he looked downright peaceful.

All of this Tails surveyed with a kind of suppressed horror. He stared, numbly, at the dingo who had survived the blast, then been finished off by Mohawk. She was young, perhaps barely eighteen, with tan fur and blue eyes that now stared unseeingly into the sky. There were signs that she might have once been rather attractive, however, with a gaping scarlet hole now blown in the middle of her forehead and her right arm lying about forty feet behind her, these signs were few and far between. All the work and time that anyone had ever put into her education, her training, preparing her for a long life as an upstanding citizen … all gone to waste, destroyed in the simple pulling of a pin and light toss of a five-pound orange-shaped explosive. All her dreams, her aspirations, her hopes about the future… everything that she had ever anticipated was gone. Perhaps she had dreamt of meeting her true love and raising a family; perhaps she had wished to become an artist, or an electrician, or a poet. So much potential… wasted, wasted.

Tails wondered what her name had been.

"Let's go, let's go!" Orson was saying, gesturing with his submachine gun. The stains of hastily wiped-off mud covered his glasses, and large globs of the stuff were brown patches on his black fur. "Most of the shooting is coming from the southeast. If we hurry and head northeast—towards Luanyu—we can lose them before they cut us off."

"Shouldn't we join up with our other guys?" Alexander asked—no, yelled, over another loud explosion that couldn't have been more than two hundred yards to the south. "They probably could use some help." His feathers were no longer a tawny brown but grimy black, caked with mud and soil. As he spoke, he popped out a spent magazine from his pistol and reloaded it. Empty shells bounced lightly on the ground; his gun had gotten some use.

"It'd be the noble thing to do," replied Rowan, "but nobility doesn't come into play here. Our mission is to get to Luanyu, not to try to defeat an entire army single-handedly." Behind him, a blazing tree toppled to the ground, yet another reminder of the pressing need to hurry. "Guerillas don't stay in large groups. That would defeat the point. It's an 'every man for himself' sort of thing."

The idea seemed repulsive to Tails, who had always held a firm belief in the power of teamwork. The Freedom Fighters of old had always stuck together and never met with supreme disaster. Then again, none of the Freedom Fighters had ever stood holding a smoking handheld heavy machine gun, as Everett now did before him. The rules were very, very different here.

"Let's _go_!" Orson urged again.

Everyone began talking at once. "Tails," Tahmores called. Tails went over to him. "Here," said the canine, handing him a couple of magazines from one of the two packs he was toting. "Your vest has a couple of pockets where you can keep these."

_ These guys are freaking _strong Tails realized. Tahmores had gone through the entire battle wearing sixty pounds on his back. For a Mobian, that was a prodigal feat. More amazing still was Everett. In addition to Alexander's pack and his own (which bulged with belts of ammunition) he carried an aptly named weapon, easily just as weighty as his other gear. Even with his entire shoulder wrapped in a thick bandage that might once have been of some hue besides sanguine, he did not act or otherwise appear overburdened or injured. _Freaking _tough_, too._

The florae of Downunda's forests were thick, but not thick enough to prevent Tails from taking to the air. To him, even flying at a low level was preferable to moving along the ground. Alexander's five-foot wingspan would not have allowed him the same maneuvers Tails could execute, and he was thus unable to join the kit. He and the others, none of who possessed any flying capabilities whatsoever, moved at a brisk pace along the ground while Tails focused the majority of his attention on avoiding trees and low branches. It took a conscious effort for him to keep the noise of his spinning tails down, but with practice he had developed the technique if he was moving relatively slowly. Since that was just what they were doing, he had little trouble.

Orson had been right in his prediction that a quick advance would allow them to escape the enemy. Behind them and to their right, the noises of gunfire became more and more distant. It never completely faded, though, and seemed to be moving alongside of them perhaps a mile to the south as if on a parallel track with them. According to Tahmores, this was good news It indicated that the rest of their invaders were also advancing towards Luanyu, if more slowly than their party. It also made sense that the group facing actual opposition would likely advance more slowly than the one who had only faced one minor skirmish.

Very soon after the ten of them had left the burning wreckage behind, Orson (who appeared to be the highest-ranking of the soldiers) gave the order to split up into two-man groups. Remembering what had happened to the dingoes who had stayed too close together, Tails was disinclined to argue. He and Tahmores stayed straight, while the other four pairs fanned out to the right and left, about four hundred or five hundred feet from each other. They advanced at a fast pace; Tahmores was leading, knocking away heavy brush with a machete, while Tails covered the rear from the air, his keen ears listening for any sign of a foe. No such adversary appeared, though, and Tails began to wonder if perhaps they really had outdistanced all threats save those immediately around the capital city.

Two or three times there were more local retorts. After these, they advanced with enhanced caution for a few minutes, Tails even landing and walking to minimize noise output, but nothing followed. "Probably one of the other guys firing at a shadow," Tahmores remarked. The others—Tails had all but forgotten that his friends were in this mess right along with him… in mortal peril right along with him. It slowly dawned on him that any one of those shots could have… them… no, he couldn't believe that, never…

After what seemed like an eternity of silent advance, but couldn't have been more than a few hours, Tahmores brought them to a halt. Tails lowered himself, letting his tails wind down to a halt. "You're probably famished," Tahmores remarked, which was true. "Here." He tossed over the smaller bag, from which Tails extracted a container carrying some desiccated pasta, tomato sauce, and vegetables as well as a packet that identified itself as a magnesium-iron MRE heater. Following Tahmores' instructions, Tails carefully poured a bit of water from his canteen into the sachet, which immediately turned blisteringly hot in his hands. After inserting the packet in a designated slot underneath the food, he wet the pathetic-looking dry stuff, which transformed into something that appeared almost edible. He let the pasta warm for about a minute and a half, then dug in with a spork identical to the one he had used to eat the applesauce offered to him by Gregory Quack (had that been only yesterday?). It tasted like a mere shadow of real pasta, but it did ease the gnawing in his stomach. He'd known that gnawing far too often of late, and anything that managed to keep it away, even if it wasn't exactly caviar, was quite acceptable in Tails' eyes.

They sat on two rocks opposite each other. Tahmores' dinner was akin to Tails' in all but the shape of his noodles. Neither had a watch, but the evening light was beginning to fade, the innumerable shadows cast by oaks, elms, birches, and primarily eucalyptus trees growing longer and longer. Mosquitoes were beginning to come out, too. One hovered around the inside of Tails' ear, its arrogant buzzing causing him to twitch and slam a gloved palm against his skull. The hum of the mosquito's wings abruptly ceased. Tails brought his hand back down to see a small black smear running along the lump below his forefinger. He wiped it off on a patch of moss and continued eating.

"Consider yourself lucky that's the worst you've faced in four hours," Tahmores said, smiling. "More dangerous foes lie ahead."

"Mmm," Tails responded, his mouth too full to produce any coherent words. He swallowed and went on, "This whole thing is like—" he searched for an appropriate simile— "like having my head dunked in a bucket of ice water. I mean, what's going on here? What's with all the…the _guns_? Like, when you were in school, were you ever told the story of Prince Emerson?" It was a fable that most everyone accepted as true, and one that schools emphasized greatly. Emerson had been walking in the forest one day when he came upon an Overlander boy who, without prelude, had gunned him down and ran. Some, including Tails' parents, insisted that there was another version to the story and pointed to an old record that insisted the incident had been a tragic accident. Accident or not, it had been the original factor in both the prohibition of firearms and the fierce hatred between Mobians and Overlanders which was to come.

"I was told," Tahmores said quietly. "We were all told. When we got into the army, however, they told us differently." These days, one hardly ever saw Overlanders. During Robotnik's fierce reign of tyranny, most had fled the region and now were said to reside in two settlements: one in the southwest and one on the central northern continent. For the most part, they and Mobians just left each other alone these days.

"I'm so scared," Tails said unabashedly, looking down at his tray.

"Everyone is," Tahmores said, which was only slightly reassuring. "Me, Orson, Mohawk… even Everett, though he won't show it. We're all terrified. Anyone who isn't terrified when people are trying to kill him is an idiot."

That went dead against the tales of brave heroes of the past that Tails loved to read. His idols knew no fear, no terror. He simply could not imagine his father being afraid, ever. Miles had saved the world a dozen times over before he was a teenager, how could he possibly fear a thing? Tails remembered how Alexander had spoken of not being his own father's equal, and realized that he had something in common with the falcon. _I'll have to talk with him about that sometime. Talk with Dad, too. If I live._

He wished the last part hadn't crossed his mind; it just reinforced his dread. Quickly, he brought up another question that had occurred to him. "Everett," he said, picturing the sober face and thick fur in his mind. "What's up with him?" Everett had, frankly, intimidated him a good deal. The gaur was so enormous and so grave, showing no emotion and never speaking. "Did something… happen to him?"

"None of us really know his full story, but supposedly he's been with this division since the Robot Wars—not that I could be sure, I was six at the time—and as far as I know, he's never said a single word. He's not technically a mute. He can grunt or make noises, and he can understand what others say. We have more hypotheses than stars in the sky, each as unlikely as the next."

"How—" Tails was about to say _How did he lose the eye?_ but figured that even if Tahmores did happen to know, it wasn't the most diplomatic of questions. He quickly changed tactics in midstream. "How can he shoot accurately with… you know… his… disability?"

He got the impression that that wasn't particularly tactful either, but Tahmores answered straight: "It's not that hard, actually. For instance, I'm a cross-dominant shooter; I have left-eye dominance, but fire with my right hand. But with his type of gun, he doesn't even need to worry about that. He subscribes to the philosophy of 'put enough bullets in the air and they'll be bound to hit something'. And believe me, he does a good job of it."

Tails had one more question. "It seems weird that we have to burst through a siege line so that we can get on the side being… besieged. It doesn't make sense. In the books I've read, you always attacked a besieged city from the outside to scatter the enemy, not try to get yourself through them and _then_ fight."

"Heh," Tahmores said. "There's so much about this situation that's unusual, isn't there? The fact is that it's not a normal siege. They're trying to batter the resistance into surrender, not starve them out. There are actually plenty of supplies in Luanyu, enough to feed this army. The city has unpredictable weather, and plans ahead. But how would we supply our forces on the outside—especially with the issues back home? You see how hard it is to even get them here!"

"How is the enemy supplying itself?" Tails asked.

"Ravaging the countryside, for one thing," Tahmores said bitterly,. "and we can't exactly do that, can we? Also, it's a short hop for them to bring stuff in by air drop… only a couple hundred miles from West Downunda, which is legitimate dingo territory. If only they would have been satisfied with just that!"

Tails could say nothing to that. _What a bizarre mission—and yet so crucial_.

They quickly finished off their meals. Tahmores tossed his container on the ground, stood up, and shouldered the two packs. "Just ditch it," he said to Tails, who was looking, dismayed, at the discarded tray. "Far worse things could happen here than a bit of plastic on the ground." Tails still felt like a no-good litterbug as he abandoned his own container, but let the feeling pass. He'd thrown more childhood teachings out the window in a single day than a hardened criminal might in an entire lifetime.

Woods, fields, thickets, swamps. Swamps, thickets, fields, woods. Through the night they tediously hiked onwards without meeting another soul. When they came to a river, Tails airlifted the packs over while Tahmores swam across. At the other side, the dog started to take back the gear, but Tails only gave him one pack. "I didn't have any trouble getting it over," he explained. "I shouldn't have any trouble carrying it."

Tahmores nodded. "All right, but you've still got a long day tomorrow, and you're going to be bushed before we're done. So if you're having any trouble, I'll take it again."

The forty-eight hour estimate originally given had included a significant allowance for delays and hindrances induced by combat. As they were having none, Tahmores estimated that they might arrive in fewer than forty hours. They kept a strict compass bearing to the east-northeast, between 65° and 70°, and just kept moving.

Tails thanked his genetics for the three powerful appendages that kept him from having to slog along the ground with everyone else. Absently, he had risen a bit too high and forgotten to pay attention. The tree branch slamming into his skull brought him back to earth… both figuratively and literally. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he stared upwards. Tahmores helped him to his feet. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he muttered, embarrassed. To prove it, he leapt back into the air. He wobbled a bit at first, but had suffered no permanent damage.

It was just a bit after dawn, and right at yet another crossing from field back to forest, that Tahmores once again came to a sharp halt. "Stop!" he yelled, and Tails quickly obeyed, coming to a dead halt in midair. "Look," Tahmores continued, pointing at the ground ahead of him. "Do you see it?"

Tails stared hard. His eyesight was not as good as his hearing, but he could still see the drops of dew hanging off of the… "Trip wire," he whispered. "Yeah, I see it."

"Thousand to one it's either electrified or rigged to an explosive," Tahmores muttered. "If it's rigged, the explosive will be near, and we oughta blow it up. If it's electric, there's nothing that I personally can do about it unless we can find the power source. Trying to dynamite it might cause an electrical fire. I guess we can—"

"It's not electric," Tails realized. "There's dew on it. Look."

Tahmores stared, first at the line, then at Tails. "Oh, you're sharp," he said softly. "Now how come I didn't pick that up? All right, get back." Tails retreated about a hundred paces on foot, until he was standing in the middle of the field. After a moment, Tahmores backed up about half that distance and took a small remote control out of his pocket. He pressed the button and the forest exploded twice, first from the mine that he had placed right next to the wire, the second from the bomb that could have blown them both to smithereens. Trees burst into flame.

Tails barely had time to let out a sigh of relief before he also heard four pistol shots go off behind him. Something punched him between the shoulder blades, hard. He cried out as the blow sent him reeling forwards into the tall grass and kept him there. It felt as if someone had swung a sledgehammer into his back. He had let down his guard for a moment, and if Tahmores' shout hadn't given their position away, the thunderous blasts certainly had.

He had just been shot.

But he wasn't dead.

"Tails!" Tahmores cried, emptying his magazine into the trees and reloading. "Tails! Are you okay?" He swore loudly. "Tails! Are you alive? _Tails!_"

"I—fine—" he managed to get out. He had imagined that getting hit in a bulletproof vest would feel like a love tap, a playful punch that without the jacket would have been lethal. Indeed, the vest had saved his life, but he couldn't have been more wrong about the pain. It _stung_, and the throb kept growing. He figured that he'd have a bruise the size of a plum tomorrow, (_once again, if I _see_ tomorrow_,) and probably as purple as one, too. The most important thing, however, was that his flesh remained intact.

No further shots came from the forest. Tails wondered if Tahmores' bullets had struck home, or if the enemy was simply making a hasty retreat, thinking him dead. It turned out to be neither. "Tails?" came a voice from the trees. "Tahmores?"

"Princess Sabrina?" Tahmores whispered, his eyes widening. Then he repeated it, louder. "Princess Sabrina!"

"Oh… my… gods…" Sabrina said, her form slowly coming out of the woods. Tahmores had his pistol trained on her, and her own was raised. A second later she dropped it as if it had suddenly become blazing hot. "Oh my gods… Tails… did I just shoot you?"

"I'd say that's a safe bet," Tails groaned, getting to his feet. Then realizing this probably wasn't the time for wit, added, "Don't worry about it. You hit me in the vest."

Sabrina burst into tears. "I'm so sorry!" she sobbed. "You—you looked like a weasel, I couldn't tell… I can't believe I did that! I could have killed you! I'm so sorry!" She collapsed about five feet from the forest edge, gasping for breath through her apologies. Her pack slipped off and she lay in the grass, tears pouring down her face. "You're okay, thanks gods… I'm so sorry!"

Tails went over to her, while Tahmores kept his distance, apparently deciding that since Tails was the injured party, it was his place to comfort the near-hysterical Sabrina. The fox knelt by his friend, who had her face buried in the ground. "Really, I'm all right," he said. "It's just a bruise."

He petted her head softly, and immediately felt silly about it. But when he took his hand away, she looked back up at him through tear-filled eyes. "You—you're really okay?" she asked, sniffing. He nodded. "I… I'll pay you back for that someday… I'll find a way…" She began to get control of herself, and was getting to her feet. "I suppose it's not a blood debt—thank gods—but…" She switched tracks. "Mohawk…" Tails had forgotten all about the grenade-toting ursine. "He…" She just couldn't go on, and looked to be in danger of starting up the waterworks again.

Tahmores walked over to them. "How did it happen?" he calmly asked… no, whispered. "Did he die like a soldier?"

"Yes… it was so horrible… one moment he was laughing, making a joke, and then the next he just… crumpled…" Sabrina swallowed hard and looked up. "He was hit from behind. I don't know how, but… I wanted to stay and help him, but he… he told me to run, and I didn't. I said I could save him, help him, but he… he pointed his… gun at me, told me I had to go, and I had to, I had to…" She sounded as if she was pleading her case before a jury. "And then I heard another shot…"

_ This is a crime_, Tails thought. _To take this girl, this royal girl, barely thirteen, who has lived such a sheltered life, and make her witness such horrors… it's downright criminal._ He now knew a new feeling for her parents, and his own, and Adeline and Randall's, too… it was pity. They had not only had to endure such things at even younger ages, but it was half of their lives, most of what they knew. _Criminal_, he thought again. _But whom do you arrest for the crime of war?_

"He was a great guy," Tahmores recalled softly, squatting next to the two children, in a way that seemed strangely paternal. "He wouldn't have wanted to go any other way. Fighting was his life, his passion. That's the way it is for most of us."

This the wages of the Robot Wars… empty shells of Mobians, robots in mind if not form, addicted to battle, obsessed with killing. Tails had heard of this, the way that some people could never be normal again after being in active duty. He wondered if it would be like that for him. The images came rushing back again… Sef toppling over backwards with his throat torn open… the young girl with those blank blue eyes and her arm a bloody stump… "But they don't all turn out like that," he said aloud. The Freedom Fighters hadn't… had they? Somewhere deep inside, did they still lust for the thrill of combat?

"Hmm?" Tahmores asked.

Tails sighed. "Never mind…"

Before long, Sabrina had regained her composure. Tahmores offered to take her gear for her, but she declined. "I'm okay, it's okay," she kept repeating, but there were visible signs of sleep deprivation in her eyes and stride. Tails felt awful himself, but he shook his head and kept the juice flowing through his tails. Only Tahmores himself seemed to show no signs of wear whatsoever, and Tails had to wonder just how many times the canine had done things like this before.

They wolfed down two energy bars apiece for a moving breakfast and felt at least slightly revitalized. The fire from the explosions was failing to spread much—the wood was damper here than it had been farther back. Still, they moved as quickly as possible to outdistance it (and avoid calling any attention to their location). It was back to the slow, tedious move, not much different with Sabrina than it had been without her.

A little after noon, Tails braved the open air above the treetops. The others admonished him and spoke of the danger, but he had to know just how close they were. Carefully poking his head above that canopy, he looked around. No aircraft or any other unnatural object was visible, but the north-northeast he could see a large lake that was probably identifiable as a landmark on their maps. Back on the ground, he reported on the sighting. Tahmores looked surprised after a fast check of his map. "Lake Fish," he said, working a quick calculation on the chart. "If this… I think we're only about eighteen miles away… we may be there in six hours. No, actually… we're slowing, so probably eight or nine." They had been moving for twenty-two, according to Tails' watch.

"… 'Lake _Fish_'?" Sabrina asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Wow. Original."

"No less than the 'Great Forest'," commented Tahmores. Sabrina looked halfway offended for a moment, then smiled. It was true. "We're even farther ahead of schedule than I thought," Tahmores continued. "If you're having trouble… I think we're pretty far removed from the fighting. We could afford to let you sleep for a couple hours. You must be exhausted, and I can stand watch."

The prospect of closing his eyes and shutting out the world for any length of time whatsoever seemed to Tails more wonderful than anything at that moment. He looked at Sabrina, and saw that she was considering it too. Could they? Temptation flooded over him, and he immediately felt guilty for it. "What about you?" he asked Tahmores. "It's not right—"

"Nah." Tahmores cut her off. "We train in this stuff regularly. Three forty-eight hour vigils are requisite for becoming a sergeant, y'know. I'm fine."

"You're a sergeant?" Sabrina asked. "… How high is that again?"

"It's a non-commissioned rank," Tahmores replied, "just one step above corporal. But that's not worth talking about, not now. Go to sleep, guys! You really need it. I'll wake you up around 1800 hours." It was 2:30 PM now; that would give them five and a half hours of solid rest.

Too tired to argue any further, Tails removed his back and leaned it against a tree. The cushioned backside, meant to make a hike easier on one's back, now served as a halfway decent pillow. Not that it really mattered—right now he could have slept on a bed of glass shards. The expression _asleep before one's head hit the pillow_ had never seemed closer to the truth…

… The sun shone brightly in the sky over Knothole Village as another day began… Children kissed their mothers goodbye, and began skipping along the dirt paths winding through the oaks, book-bags bouncing in their happy strides… Adults greeted each other on their way to work in a town where most everyone knew each other's names… Friends met up in their designated spots, as they had for months, and began to chatter as they walked, smiling, laughing, joyful in bliss and routine happiness… Tails lingered outside the D'Coolette household for Adeline and Randall to emerge… A light breeze brought the friendly humid odor of spring to his nose, and he sniffed deeply, enjoying the contentment and peace of mind it brought… Here came Adeline, and no, no, that wasn't right, something was horribly wrong, it was her neck, it was broken, her head lying across her neck at an unnatural angle as she smiled and said hello… Tails screamed and turned around, but behind him was Scott, a young brown lemur with purple dyed stripes whom Tails had always gotten along with, except he wasn't Scott, he was a dingo with his arm a bloody stump and a large red bullet hole in his forehead… There came more of them, all the young kids Tails new, and some adults too—each one of them a walking zombie, greeting him as if nothing was wrong, but Trixie had a gaping hole in her throat, and Vasilios' flesh was completely charred, and Sabrina—Sabrina was horrendously disemboweled, yet still laughing and smiling… Tails whirled once more, and there was Randall, with his mechanical arm pointing right into the fox's face, but then it wasn't his arm, it was the barrel of a 12mm pistol… "Tails," they all chanted, summoning him by name over and over in a cruel chant… "Tails…Tails…_Tails_…"

"NOOOO!!!" he woke up screaming.

"Tails, be _quiet_!" Tahmores hissed.

Tails was sitting straight upright, panting, his heart beating twice as fast as normal. Tahmores shushed him again. He needed a moment to remember where he was—and when he did, it wasn't much better than his dream. No, it was better… Sabrina was still normal, still alive, as she sat a few feet to his right… and as far as he knew, the others weren't dead yet either. Slowly, his breath and mind stabilized. The first thing that he noticed was that it was still bright out. While Knothole was in Mobius' northern hemisphere, Downunda lay south of the equator, and as the days had been drifting towards the summer solstice back home, the days were progressively shortening here, and by 1800 hours, it would have been just about sunset. He checked his watch and found it was only about 4:20 PM. "What's going on?" he asked, as softly as he could manage, still breathing hard. "Why'd ya wake us up?"

"Heard a twig snap," Tahmores muttered. "Could be a forest dweller. Could be a friend. Can't take any chances. Stay back."

"Why don't they have a whistle call or something?" Tails asked Sabrina under his breath. "So they can identify friend from foe?"

"Special whistles can be easily taken off of captives—or dead men," Sabrina whispered back. "Whistle patterns… well, it still gives away your position to anyone." That was unfortunately true… and the last thing they wanted to do right then was give away their position to the entire forest. "And passwords can be overheard… or squeezed out of people." _Squeezed out_ was a major euphemism. They both knew through what methods some more unscrupulous soldiers might obtain a password. Robotnik had once committed such atrocities…

"Well, we have to risk a call now," Tahmores said. "Can't open fire on our friends, and can't risk welcoming an enemy, either." He raised his voice somewhat. "Hey, you there!" he asked the foliage. "Under whose command do you fight?" Tails knew the answer to that—Malachi Levine was captain of the _A.K.S. Mobotropolis_ and, coincidentally, also wore double silver bars in his army uniform, making him the highest-ranking commissioned officer in the Acorn Kingdom's rather small army. In the time of the Robot Wars, there had been majors and colonels and even a general or two. Levine's name, however, was obscure enough outside Knothole that it was unlikely any enemy would know it.

There was no response from the brush. Tahmores repeated his question, slightly louder this time. "Damnation," he swore. "Maybe it was just some harmless critter—and then again, maybe not. Eh, kids… you'd better get your—"

A gunshot cut him off, compounded with a wet _thunk_ as the bullet struck home. Tahmores never felt a thing as his lifeless body fell to the dirt, a surprisingly bloodless small hole in the side of his head. He bounced once and did not move… except for his eyes, which slowly rolled upwards and halted. Only blank whites remained of those friendly, yet serious and strict, eyes, that Tails had known for barely a day, and yet still come to respect…

_ He's dead_, Tails thought, stunned. But unlike before, when Sef was killed in front of him, another thought shoved it aside in milliseconds. _I'm next…_

He instantly knew that it would be useless to make a stand. Whoever had just taken out their guide—_he's dead, he's dead_—was completely concealed. They hadn't seen him (or her), and he (or she… the mutilated carcass of the young girl would never leave Tails' mind, as long as he lived…) had most certainly seen them. In a blink they too would be sprawled twitching on the forest floor unless…

They ran. More appropriately, they fled. But there was another shot, and it whistled over their heads… Tahmores' killer was in pursuit. As he had so earlier blessed his tails for their aeronautic prowess, now the fox cursed them for how clumsy they made him along the ground. Did he have the reflexes to fly at top speed through the thick trees? There was only way to find out, and the alternative was far worse. Bracing himself, he prepared to spring into the air—and was promptly swept off of his feet by a titian blur of motion.

He let out an embarrassingly vulpine yelp, wondering what on earth had hit him. The woods were flying by on either side at a startling rate, as if he had just jumped aboard a speeding train. Air slammed into his face like sheets of steel. Unable to think for a moment, his confusion lasted only a second. "Sabrina!" he blurted.

His words were completely inaudible, carried away by the wind, but his royal friend still gave a quick thumbs-up, then turned her attention back to the task at hand. Her brunette fur was blown straight back from her body, and her turquoise jacket was viciously flapping in the same direction. The gear pack tugged at her arms, suspended off her back. Her eyes narrowed with concentration as she weaved between the trees. It was so easy to forget, at times, that while the girl had indeed grown up with a sheltered life, she was still the daughter of Sonic the Hedgehog. Whatever bizarre genes had granted Sonic his remarkable speed were found, untainted, in his child.

They sped on. Sabrina was gripping Tails under her right arm, nimbly dodging each trunk. She was moving at less than half her potential speed, both because she was heavily weighted down and because to move any faster would be sheer suicide. He could feel her fingers slipping from his waist, though, and apparently she felt it too. Screeching to a halt, she laid him down on the ground and then fell to her knees, panting. She swore softly. Tails wondered just how far they had traveled. Time had seemed to slow down so the trip lasted an eternity, but the practical part of his mind knew that it had been only about ten seconds in reality. In any case, it didn't really matter. They had left their pursuer far, far behind.

"Thanks," Tails finally ground out.

Sabrina swore again. "He's dead," she halfway snarled. "Well, now what? What do we do? Where do we go?"

That was remarkably cold-blooded, but held a potent ring of truth. There was no time to mourn the passing of their short-term mentor and friend. They'd had to leave the map, but… With a start, Tails realized that he'd been holding his weapon in one had the whole time, but in his other, he had happened to grab the compass. He didn't even remember picking it up. Sabrina exclaimed when he showed it to her. "You think you can get us there?" she asked. "With just that?"

Tails began to calculate mentally, fingering the compass to align the arrows. What had happened less than a minute ago, an event that once would have put him into a quivering, sobbing fit for days, now seemed as natural as the rising and setting of the sun. In the span of a single day, his innocence had been stripped from him like covering off a wire. Now… Now he looked up from the compass, and back down again, measuring the direction. "Eight hours," he muttered.

"Yeah," Sabrina said. "You know which way we're going?"

"Think so," he replied. "Let's move it." The compass pointed nearly dead east now, meaning they had been veering slightly too far to the left. As they adjusted their direction and began to troop off once more, a thought came to him. "You know what?" he remarked. Sabrina didn't. "What if you just took off? You could probably be there in twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most, at that speed. I mean, you could get there so _fast_…"

"No," Sabrina responded instantly, "for I don't know how many reasons." She began to tick them off. "One: I can't run that far that fast, especially not with this pack."

"You could drop it," Tails interjected. "You wouldn't need it."

"I'm not finished. Two, what if there's another trip wire, like the one you guys found before? At that speed, even if it wasn't wired to anything, it'd be like running into the edge of a sword." Tails winced, picturing it against his will. It could easily sever. "Three, there's the matter of these things called _trees_. I can't dodge them forever. Too dangerous. And four: I am _not_ leaving you."

He would have protested at least the fourth reason. All he wanted was to make sure his friend was safe—a goal far removed from his earlier dreams of glory. But the princess was indisputably right about the others. Fleeing like that had been a desperate measure. "Okay," he said. "Guess you're right; we're in for the long haul."

Sabrina shuddered momentarily. "I hope Adeline and Randall are okay. Alexander, too. And the other guys."

"Me too," Tails responded absently, concentrating on the compass. Concentrating meant that he didn't have to think about his friends, think about Tahmores, who had been so kind, so helpful, who had always avoided treating him like a little kid. Concentrating helped him just lose track of time…

He remembered almost nothing of the next eight hours. They exchanged almost no words beyond the necessary, ate on the move, and encountered not a foe until they reached the siege lines. Here they met up with the relief forces that had arrived ahead of them. The offensive force was clearly immense, and it was easy to see just how they had kept the entire invasion secret for so long, especially against Downunda's under-trained militia. Knothole's army, however, had specialists. Within the course of an hour, the infamous beaver Xenophon, a former thief who had become a registered spy upon his release, had lead a small group through the cordon without notice.

With the battered Downunda resistance now informed of exactly where and when the big push was going to be made, they prepared a secondary attack from behind. Caught completely by surprise in the night, the besiegers were an insect between thumb and forefinger. As they scattered, most of Knothole's army was able to slip through the massive hole in the line—which had moved within a mile of the capital itself. In the pitch dark (it was just about midnight now) the few skirmishes that did occur were mild. Tails and Sabrina, the latter once more summoning the strength to carry the former at full speed, never even saw an enemy up close.

While some soldiers remained to ensure that the battle was closed, the rest (not a few nursing injuries) completed the trek to Luanyu. Xenophon had no doubt already passed on the message about children in the forces, but there was still astonishment as they pretty much crawled into the city. The looks on the faces of some seemed to doubt that these two small bodies caked in grime were even living flesh and not something from beyond the grave.

Tails knew that they were both.

_ I'm safe—for now._ He passed out.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He thought he would sleep forever.

In reality, though, he woke up sixteen hours later. He lay still for a moment, taking it all in, remembering. It all felt dull. Then, with a sudden gasp and sitting bolt upright, he realized there was something he still didn't know.

Whispering a prayer, he threw open the door of the room that he was in, and pretty much hollered at the first person he saw, a neon green anole whom he'd never seen before, although a tattoo of an acorn and sword on his chest seemed to mark him as a member of the Knothole relief forces. He looked surprised at first, but then his scaly features softened and he jerked a thumb towards another door to his right. As he swept away, Tails noticed that half his tail was missing. To the fox kit, such mutilation would have forever crimped his flight. He didn't dwell on it though and, breathing hard, he opened the door the anole had indicated.

"Hey, he's awake," Randall said, smiling.

Tails threw himself into his friend's arms. "You're okay," he sobbed. "You're okay." He spared no less enthusiasm or emotion in hugging Adeline, who fell to the floor with a startled quack.

"Get _off_, Tails! You're still filthy! I just got clean!" But she, too, was laughing with relief.

Sabrina put her hands up as he turned towards her. "Me too," she said. "Keep off." She laughed, slightly giddily. "We're really okay," she said. "I was so scared." Then her face sobered, as she continued. "But… Tails…"

Tails instantly realized something was wrong. "Alexander," he whispered. "Where's Alexander?"

"He's okay," Adeline said, "we think. They aren't saying much about him. But, Tails… the others didn't make it. Everett, Orson… Right in front of me, Rowan, and I never saw who got him. None of them… none of them made it."

They were silent for a moment. The five faces flashed across Tails' mind, then disappeared into the mist that was those gone by.

Just then, the door opened, and a large tawny cougar with a large scar across his chest strolled in. His pants were blue and red: Downunda's colors; he was a resistance fighter. "Polo said you were up," he grunted, nodding at Tails. "C'mon, you look like crap. Get you cleaned up." Clearly playing the messenger was not part of his ordinary duties.

"Do you know anything about our friend Alexander?" Tails asked.

From what Adeline had just said, he didn't expect an answer, but the cougar surprised him. "Yeah," he said, lips skinning back to display several gold fillings in a way that suggested he was going to enjoy what he was about to say. "I'm afraid you won't be seeing your 'friend' any time soon. He's... incapacitated. That is to say, he is currently chained to a wall about, oh, two stories below the surface. Under heavy guard."

"What?!" Tails and Randall exclaimed, at the same time Adeline and Sabrina asked, "What for?"

"Where do I begin?" the cougar replied. "Oh, well, how about five counts of kidnapping, attempted murder, collaboration, aiding and abetting enemies of your kingdom... in short, a good old dose of treason." Tails stared at him in shock as his grin turned downright predatory. "And regent's son or no regent's son," he sneered, "once we find him guilty, the only question left will be whether to put a rope around his neck—or a bullet through his beak."


End file.
